(cont.)
The authority of government, even such as I am willing
to submit to--for I will cheerfully obey those who know and
can do better than I, and in many things even those who
neither know nor can do so well--is still an impure one: to
be strictly just, it must have the sanction and consent of
the governed. It can have no pure right over my person and
property but what I concede to it. The progress from an
absolute to a limited monarchy, from a limited monarchy to a
democracy, is a progress toward a true respect for the
individual. Even the Chinese philosopher was wise enough to
regard the individual as the basis of the empire. Is a
democracy, such as we know it, the last improvement possible
in government? Is it not possible to take a step further
towards recognizing and organizing the rights of man? There
will never be a really free and enlightened State until the
State comes to recognize the individual as a higher and
independent power, from which all its own power and
authority are derived, and treats him accordingly. I please
myself with imagining a State at last which can afford to be
just to all men, and to treat the individual with respect as
a neighbor; which even would not think it inconsistent with
its own repose if a few were to live aloof from it, not
meddling with it, nor embraced by it, who fulfilled all the
duties of neighbors and fellow men. A State which bore this
kind of fruit, and suffered it to drop off as fast as it
ripened, would prepare the way for a still more perfect and
glorious State, which I have also imagined, but not yet
anywhere seen.
29.3.05
On the Duty of Civil Disobedience
by Henry David Thoreau
(1849, original title: Resistance to Civil Government)
I heartily accept the motto, "That government is best
which governs least"; and I should like to see it acted up
to more rapidly and systematically. Carried out, it finally
amounts to this, which also I believe--"That government is
best which governs not at all"; and when men are prepared
for it, that will be the kind of government which they will have.
Government is at best but an expedient; but most governments
are usually, and all governments are sometimes, inexpedient.
The objections which have been brought against a standing army,
and they are many and weighty, and deserve to prevail,
may also at last be brought against a standing government.
The standing army is only an arm of the standing government.
The government itself, which is only the mode which the people
have chosen to execute their will, is equally liable to be abused
and perverted before the people can act through it.
by Henry David Thoreau
(1849, original title: Resistance to Civil Government)
I heartily accept the motto, "That government is best
which governs least"; and I should like to see it acted up
to more rapidly and systematically. Carried out, it finally
amounts to this, which also I believe--"That government is
best which governs not at all"; and when men are prepared
for it, that will be the kind of government which they will have.
Government is at best but an expedient; but most governments
are usually, and all governments are sometimes, inexpedient.
The objections which have been brought against a standing army,
and they are many and weighty, and deserve to prevail,
may also at last be brought against a standing government.
The standing army is only an arm of the standing government.
The government itself, which is only the mode which the people
have chosen to execute their will, is equally liable to be abused
and perverted before the people can act through it.
YOU WEREN'T THERE
(Sullivan) 1999
Well, you say it's such a small, small world
flying Club Class back from the far-east
curled up safe and warm in the big chair
you were drifting through the skies of anywhere
Get the courtesy car to the Sheraton
there's live on-the-spot reports on the CNN between the ad-breaks
so you think you know what's going on - but you don't
because you weren't in Belfast, no you weren't there
and no you weren't in Waco, no you weren't there
and you weren't in Kosovo, you weren't there
and you weren't in my head so you don't know how it felt
walking arm in arm with crowds to the square
and the banners waving and the sun glinting
All this information swims round and round
like a shoal of fish in a tank going nowhere
Up and down between the glass walls
You're so safe in the knowledge they're impenetrable
and you look out at the world and see nothing at all
so go back to sleep and you'll be woken when the time comes
and you'll never know just what hit you or where it came from
because you weren't in Bradford, no you weren't there
and you weren't on the hill, no you weren't there
and you weren't with us so you never saw
just what happened when the television crews came knocking on the door
how the people told them all to go to Hell,
smashed the cameras and sent them away
There were sirens going off and policemen coming in
and all that you love was being swept away
in the rush of a black tide all done in your name
and you'll never know just what happened there
or how it feels - just how it feels . . .
(Sullivan) 1999
Well, you say it's such a small, small world
flying Club Class back from the far-east
curled up safe and warm in the big chair
you were drifting through the skies of anywhere
Get the courtesy car to the Sheraton
there's live on-the-spot reports on the CNN between the ad-breaks
so you think you know what's going on - but you don't
because you weren't in Belfast, no you weren't there
and no you weren't in Waco, no you weren't there
and you weren't in Kosovo, you weren't there
and you weren't in my head so you don't know how it felt
walking arm in arm with crowds to the square
and the banners waving and the sun glinting
All this information swims round and round
like a shoal of fish in a tank going nowhere
Up and down between the glass walls
You're so safe in the knowledge they're impenetrable
and you look out at the world and see nothing at all
so go back to sleep and you'll be woken when the time comes
and you'll never know just what hit you or where it came from
because you weren't in Bradford, no you weren't there
and you weren't on the hill, no you weren't there
and you weren't with us so you never saw
just what happened when the television crews came knocking on the door
how the people told them all to go to Hell,
smashed the cameras and sent them away
There were sirens going off and policemen coming in
and all that you love was being swept away
in the rush of a black tide all done in your name
and you'll never know just what happened there
or how it feels - just how it feels . . .
"What brought it to pass? What disaster took their reason away
from men? What whip lashed them to their knees in shame and
submission? The worship of the word "We."
When men accepted that worship, the structure of centuries
collapsed about them, the structure whose every beam had come
from the thought of some one man, each in his day down the ages,
from the depth of some one spirit, such as spirit existed but for
its own sake. Those men who survived- those eager to obey, eager
to live for one another, since they had nothing else to vindicate
them- those men could neither carry on, nor preserve what they
had received. Thus did all thought, all science, all wisdom
perish on earth. Thus did men- men with nothing to offer save
their great numbers- lose the steel towers, the flying ships, the
power wires, all the things they had not created and could never
keep. Perhaps, later, some men had been born with the mind and
the courage to recover these things which were lost; perhaps
these men came before the Councils of Scholars. They answered as
I have been answered- and for the same reasons.
But I still wonder how it was possible, in those graceless years
of transition, long ago, that men did not see whither they were
going, and went on, in blindness and cowardice, to their fate. I
wonder, for it is hard for me to conceive how men who knew the word "I,"
could give it up and not know what they had lost. But such has been
the story, for I have lived in the City of the damned,
and I know what horror men permitted to be brought upon them.
Perhaps, in those days, there were a few among men, a few of
clear sight and clean soul, who refused to surrender that word.
What agony must have been theirs before that which they saw
coming and could not stop! Perhaps they cried out in protest and
in warning. But men paid no heed to their warning. And they,
those few, fought a hopeless battle, and they perished with their
banners smeared by their own blood. And they chose to perish, for
they knew. To them, I send my salute across the centuries, and my pity.
Theirs is the banner in my hand. And I wish I had the power to
tell them that the despair of their hearts was not to be final,
and their night was not without hope. For the battle they lost
can never be lost. For that which they died to save can never
perish. Through all the darkness, through all the shame of which
men are capable, the spirit of man will remain alive on this
earth. It may sleep, but it will awaken. It may wear chains, but
it will break through. And man will go on. Man, not men.
Here, on this mountain, I and my sons and my chosen friends shall
build our new land and our fort. And it will become as the heart
of the earth, lost and hidden at first, but beating, beating
louder each day. And word of it will reach every corner of the
earth. And the roads of the world will become as veins which will
carry the best of the world's blood to my threshold. And all my
brothers, and the Councils of my brothers, will hear of it, but
they will be impotent against me. And the day will come when I
shall break the chains of the earth, and raze the cities of the
enslaved, and my home will become the capital of a world where
each man will be free to exist for his own sake.
For the coming of that day I shall fight, I and my sons and my
chosen friends. For the freedom of Man. For his rights. For his
life. For his honor.
And here, over the portals of my fort, I shall cut in the stone
the word which is to be my beacon and my banner. The word which
will not die, should we all perish in battle. The word which can
never die on this earth, for it is the heart of it and the
meaning and the glory.
The sacred word:
EGO"
-Ayn Rand, "Anthem"
from men? What whip lashed them to their knees in shame and
submission? The worship of the word "We."
When men accepted that worship, the structure of centuries
collapsed about them, the structure whose every beam had come
from the thought of some one man, each in his day down the ages,
from the depth of some one spirit, such as spirit existed but for
its own sake. Those men who survived- those eager to obey, eager
to live for one another, since they had nothing else to vindicate
them- those men could neither carry on, nor preserve what they
had received. Thus did all thought, all science, all wisdom
perish on earth. Thus did men- men with nothing to offer save
their great numbers- lose the steel towers, the flying ships, the
power wires, all the things they had not created and could never
keep. Perhaps, later, some men had been born with the mind and
the courage to recover these things which were lost; perhaps
these men came before the Councils of Scholars. They answered as
I have been answered- and for the same reasons.
But I still wonder how it was possible, in those graceless years
of transition, long ago, that men did not see whither they were
going, and went on, in blindness and cowardice, to their fate. I
wonder, for it is hard for me to conceive how men who knew the word "I,"
could give it up and not know what they had lost. But such has been
the story, for I have lived in the City of the damned,
and I know what horror men permitted to be brought upon them.
Perhaps, in those days, there were a few among men, a few of
clear sight and clean soul, who refused to surrender that word.
What agony must have been theirs before that which they saw
coming and could not stop! Perhaps they cried out in protest and
in warning. But men paid no heed to their warning. And they,
those few, fought a hopeless battle, and they perished with their
banners smeared by their own blood. And they chose to perish, for
they knew. To them, I send my salute across the centuries, and my pity.
Theirs is the banner in my hand. And I wish I had the power to
tell them that the despair of their hearts was not to be final,
and their night was not without hope. For the battle they lost
can never be lost. For that which they died to save can never
perish. Through all the darkness, through all the shame of which
men are capable, the spirit of man will remain alive on this
earth. It may sleep, but it will awaken. It may wear chains, but
it will break through. And man will go on. Man, not men.
Here, on this mountain, I and my sons and my chosen friends shall
build our new land and our fort. And it will become as the heart
of the earth, lost and hidden at first, but beating, beating
louder each day. And word of it will reach every corner of the
earth. And the roads of the world will become as veins which will
carry the best of the world's blood to my threshold. And all my
brothers, and the Councils of my brothers, will hear of it, but
they will be impotent against me. And the day will come when I
shall break the chains of the earth, and raze the cities of the
enslaved, and my home will become the capital of a world where
each man will be free to exist for his own sake.
For the coming of that day I shall fight, I and my sons and my
chosen friends. For the freedom of Man. For his rights. For his
life. For his honor.
And here, over the portals of my fort, I shall cut in the stone
the word which is to be my beacon and my banner. The word which
will not die, should we all perish in battle. The word which can
never die on this earth, for it is the heart of it and the
meaning and the glory.
The sacred word:
EGO"
-Ayn Rand, "Anthem"
28.3.05
24.3.05
For the Courtesan Ch'ing Lin
On your slender body
Your jade and coral girdle ornaments chime
Like those of a celestial companion
Come from the Green Jade City of Heaven.
One smile from you when we meet,
And I become speechless and forget every word.
For too long you have gathered flowers,
And leaned against the bamboos,
Your green sleeves growing cold,
In your deserted valley:
I can visualize you all alone,
A girl harboring her cryptic thoughts.
You glow like a perfumed lamp
In the gathering shadows.
We play wine games
And recite each other's poems.
Then you sing `Remembering South of the River'
With its heart breaking verses. Then
We paint each other's beautiful eyebrows.
I want to possess you completely -
Your jade body
And your promised heart.
It is Spring.
Vast mists cover the Five Lakes.
My dear, let me buy a red painted boat
And carry you away.
- Wu Tsao
On your slender body
Your jade and coral girdle ornaments chime
Like those of a celestial companion
Come from the Green Jade City of Heaven.
One smile from you when we meet,
And I become speechless and forget every word.
For too long you have gathered flowers,
And leaned against the bamboos,
Your green sleeves growing cold,
In your deserted valley:
I can visualize you all alone,
A girl harboring her cryptic thoughts.
You glow like a perfumed lamp
In the gathering shadows.
We play wine games
And recite each other's poems.
Then you sing `Remembering South of the River'
With its heart breaking verses. Then
We paint each other's beautiful eyebrows.
I want to possess you completely -
Your jade body
And your promised heart.
It is Spring.
Vast mists cover the Five Lakes.
My dear, let me buy a red painted boat
And carry you away.
- Wu Tsao
I have not had one word from her
Frankly I wish I were dead
When she left, she wept
a great deal; she said to me, "This parting must be
endured, Sappho. I go unwillingly."
I said, "Go, and be happy
but remember (you know
well) whom you leave shackled by love
"If you forget me, think
of our gifts to Aphrodite
and all the loveliness that we shared
"all the violet tiaras,
braided rosebuds, dill and
crocus twined around your young neck
"myrrh poured on your head
and on soft mats girls with
all that they most wished for beside them
"while no voices chanted
choruses without ours,
no woodlot bloomed in spring without song..."
- Sappho
Frankly I wish I were dead
When she left, she wept
a great deal; she said to me, "This parting must be
endured, Sappho. I go unwillingly."
I said, "Go, and be happy
but remember (you know
well) whom you leave shackled by love
"If you forget me, think
of our gifts to Aphrodite
and all the loveliness that we shared
"all the violet tiaras,
braided rosebuds, dill and
crocus twined around your young neck
"myrrh poured on your head
and on soft mats girls with
all that they most wished for beside them
"while no voices chanted
choruses without ours,
no woodlot bloomed in spring without song..."
- Sappho
(outro do gajo...)
I dreamed my genesis in sweat of sleep, breaking
Through the rotating shell, strong
As motor muscle on the drill, driving
Through vision and the girdered nerve.
From limbs that had the measure of the worm, shuffled
Off from the creasing flesh, filed
Through all the irons in the grass, metal
Of suns in the man-melting night.
Heir to the scalding veins that hold love's drop, costly
A creature in my bones I
Rounded my globe of heritage, journey
In bottom gear through night-geared man.
I dreamed my genesis and died again, shrapnel
Rammed in the marching heart, hole
In the stitched wound and clotted wind, muzzled
Death on the mouth that ate the gas.
Sharp in my second death I marked the hills, harvest
Of hemlock and the blades, rust
My blood upon the tempered dead, forcing
My second struggling from the grass.
And power was contagious in my birth, second
Rise of the skeleton and
Rerobing of the naked ghost. Manhood
Spat up from the resuffered pain.
I dreamed my genesis in sweat of death, fallen
Twice in the feeding sea, grown
Stale of Adam's brine until, vision
Of new man strength, I seek the sun.
I dreamed my genesis in sweat of sleep, breaking
Through the rotating shell, strong
As motor muscle on the drill, driving
Through vision and the girdered nerve.
From limbs that had the measure of the worm, shuffled
Off from the creasing flesh, filed
Through all the irons in the grass, metal
Of suns in the man-melting night.
Heir to the scalding veins that hold love's drop, costly
A creature in my bones I
Rounded my globe of heritage, journey
In bottom gear through night-geared man.
I dreamed my genesis and died again, shrapnel
Rammed in the marching heart, hole
In the stitched wound and clotted wind, muzzled
Death on the mouth that ate the gas.
Sharp in my second death I marked the hills, harvest
Of hemlock and the blades, rust
My blood upon the tempered dead, forcing
My second struggling from the grass.
And power was contagious in my birth, second
Rise of the skeleton and
Rerobing of the naked ghost. Manhood
Spat up from the resuffered pain.
I dreamed my genesis in sweat of death, fallen
Twice in the feeding sea, grown
Stale of Adam's brine until, vision
Of new man strength, I seek the sun.
Ears in the turrets hear
Ears in the turrets hear
Hands grumble on the door,
Eyes in the gables see
The fingers at the locks.
Shall I unbolt or stay
Alone till the day I die
Unseen by stranger-eyes
In this white house?
Hands, hold you poison or grapes?
Beyond this island bound
By a thin sea of flesh
And a bone coast,
The land lies out of sound
And the hills out of mind.
No birds or flying fish
Disturbs this island's rest.
Ears in this island hear
The wind pass like a fire,
Eyes in this island see
Ships anchor off the bay.
Shall I run to the ships
With the wind in my hair,
Or stay till the day I die
And welcome no sailor?
Ships, hold you poison or grapes?
Hands grumble on the door,
Ships anchor off the bay,
Rain beats the sand and slates.
Shall I let in the stranger,
Shall I welcome the sailor,
Or stay till the day I die?
Hands of the stranger and holds of the ships,
Hold you poison or grapes?
- Dylan Thomas
Ears in the turrets hear
Hands grumble on the door,
Eyes in the gables see
The fingers at the locks.
Shall I unbolt or stay
Alone till the day I die
Unseen by stranger-eyes
In this white house?
Hands, hold you poison or grapes?
Beyond this island bound
By a thin sea of flesh
And a bone coast,
The land lies out of sound
And the hills out of mind.
No birds or flying fish
Disturbs this island's rest.
Ears in this island hear
The wind pass like a fire,
Eyes in this island see
Ships anchor off the bay.
Shall I run to the ships
With the wind in my hair,
Or stay till the day I die
And welcome no sailor?
Ships, hold you poison or grapes?
Hands grumble on the door,
Ships anchor off the bay,
Rain beats the sand and slates.
Shall I let in the stranger,
Shall I welcome the sailor,
Or stay till the day I die?
Hands of the stranger and holds of the ships,
Hold you poison or grapes?
- Dylan Thomas
Do you like concrete agony Kreuzberg on Saturday?
Tell me baby what you need
There's the Zoo alive as the city sleeps tonight
Eternal divided dream
Going down to Potsdamer singing Checkpoint Charlie blues
The 70's brought Bowie baby
Do what you do
You gotta feel Berlin
Baby yeah
You gotta feel Berlin
Baby yeah
You gotta feel Berlin
Do you like punk rock mutiny rock 'n' roll depravity?
Tell me baby what you need
Boys keep swinging Wild At Heart until the morning
Let this baby set you free
Going down to Potsdamer singing Checkpoint Charlie blues
The 70's brought Bowie baby
Do what you do
You gotta feel Berlin
Baby yeah
You gotta feel Berlin
Baby yeah
Just life that's what it is
Don't be afraid of an angel's kiss
Just life that's what it is
Don't be afraid of
A criminal kiss
Tell me baby what you need
There's the Zoo alive as the city sleeps tonight
Eternal divided dream
Going down to Potsdamer singing Checkpoint Charlie blues
The 70's brought Bowie baby
Do what you do
You gotta feel Berlin
Baby yeah
You gotta feel Berlin
Baby yeah
You gotta feel Berlin
Do you like punk rock mutiny rock 'n' roll depravity?
Tell me baby what you need
Boys keep swinging Wild At Heart until the morning
Let this baby set you free
Going down to Potsdamer singing Checkpoint Charlie blues
The 70's brought Bowie baby
Do what you do
You gotta feel Berlin
Baby yeah
You gotta feel Berlin
Baby yeah
Just life that's what it is
Don't be afraid of an angel's kiss
Just life that's what it is
Don't be afraid of
A criminal kiss
He tries to see, although he can't
He tries, but doesn't understand
He calls on a different phone-line
No one that he knows
An out of focus acquaintance
Speaking in a silent parlance "Remember me", breaks the silence
A recurring line again
He's looking for something
Can't see that he's stranded
He's just moving/going somewhere
He just can't stand this feeling no more
He feels the blood run through his veins
Tries to get up, be young again
His face in the bathroom mirror
Someone looks at him
His undisputed kind of self-love
Weaker than it used to be like "Don't forget me", breaks the silence
A different life begins
He's looking for something
Can't see that he's stranded
He's just moving/going somewhere
He just can't stand this feeling no more
Looks in the mirror, feels the snag
Packs his bag and picks a map "Don't forget me", seems inapt
He doesn't want to know "Don't forget me"
He's looking for something
Can't see that he's stranded
He's just moving/going somewhere
He just can't stand this feeling no more
He's waiting for something
Becoming a vision
He's just moving/going somewhere
He just can't stand this feeling no more.
- Liv Kristine
He tries, but doesn't understand
He calls on a different phone-line
No one that he knows
An out of focus acquaintance
Speaking in a silent parlance "Remember me", breaks the silence
A recurring line again
He's looking for something
Can't see that he's stranded
He's just moving/going somewhere
He just can't stand this feeling no more
He feels the blood run through his veins
Tries to get up, be young again
His face in the bathroom mirror
Someone looks at him
His undisputed kind of self-love
Weaker than it used to be like "Don't forget me", breaks the silence
A different life begins
He's looking for something
Can't see that he's stranded
He's just moving/going somewhere
He just can't stand this feeling no more
Looks in the mirror, feels the snag
Packs his bag and picks a map "Don't forget me", seems inapt
He doesn't want to know "Don't forget me"
He's looking for something
Can't see that he's stranded
He's just moving/going somewhere
He just can't stand this feeling no more
He's waiting for something
Becoming a vision
He's just moving/going somewhere
He just can't stand this feeling no more.
- Liv Kristine
sinceramente? isso não é crescer. nem te digo o que é crescer. não é rendermo-nos. não é reduzir batimentos cardíacos a uma expressão social. não é abrir mão do que é óbvio, evidente, do que nos entra pelos olhos dentro, a troco de um sossego banal, de um gastar prazeiroso dos dias que podem ser, caso optes pela verdade, difíceis. não é isso. é isto. se quero dizer com tal que me acho melhor, superior, mais certo? sim, claro. alguém tem de. não o fazes? bom, e como queres que te entenda se ao chegares À velhice te lamentares pelos dias perdidos, pelos gritos sustidos? eu? não. eu não, desculpa. ou antes, não, não te peço desculpa. a opção é tua. como? se não me vou integrar? se haverá problemas? creio serem inevitáveis. sim, cá estarei, e tu? ah. é pena.
23.3.05
Aubade
I work all day, and get half-drunk at night.
Waking at four to soundless dark, I stare.
In time the curtain-edges will grow light.
Till then I see what's really always there:
Unresting death, a whole day nearer now,
Making all thought impossible but how
And where and when I shall myself die.
Arid interrogation: yet the dread
Of dying, and being dead,
Flashes afresh to hold and horrify.
The mind blanks at the glare. Not in remorse
- The good not done, the love not given, time
Torn off unused - nor wretchedly because
An only life can take so long to climb
Clear of its wrong beginnings, and may never;
But at the total emptiness for ever,
The sure extinction that we travel to
And shall be lost in always. Not to be here,
Not to be anywhere,
And soon; nothing more terrible, nothing more true.
This is a special way of being afraid
No trick dispels. Religion used to try,
That vast, moth-eaten musical brocade
Created to pretend we never die,
And specious stuff that says No rational being
Can fear a thing it will not feel, not seeing
That this is what we fear - no sight, no sound,
No touch or taste or smell, nothing to think with,
Nothing to love or link with,
The anasthetic from which none come round.
And so it stays just on the edge of vision,
A small, unfocused blur, a standing chill
That slows each impulse down to indecision.
Most things may never happen: this one will,
And realisation of it rages out
In furnace-fear when we are caught without
People or drink. Courage is no good:
It means not scaring others. Being brave
Lets no one off the grave.
Death is no different whined at than withstood.
Slowly light strengthens, and the room takes shape.
It stands plain as a wardrobe, what we know,
Have always known, know that we can't escape,
Yet can't accept. One side will have to go.
Meanwhile telephones crouch, getting ready to ring
In locked-up offices, and all the uncaring
Intricate rented world begins to rouse.
The sky is white as clay, with no sun.
Work has to be done.
Postmen like doctors go from house to house.
- Philip Larkin
(este é a pensar nos energúmenos que me secam os dias, agarrados a artifícios zelotas e autocráticos aos quais se agarram para não dar em loucos com as verdades do mundo)
I work all day, and get half-drunk at night.
Waking at four to soundless dark, I stare.
In time the curtain-edges will grow light.
Till then I see what's really always there:
Unresting death, a whole day nearer now,
Making all thought impossible but how
And where and when I shall myself die.
Arid interrogation: yet the dread
Of dying, and being dead,
Flashes afresh to hold and horrify.
The mind blanks at the glare. Not in remorse
- The good not done, the love not given, time
Torn off unused - nor wretchedly because
An only life can take so long to climb
Clear of its wrong beginnings, and may never;
But at the total emptiness for ever,
The sure extinction that we travel to
And shall be lost in always. Not to be here,
Not to be anywhere,
And soon; nothing more terrible, nothing more true.
This is a special way of being afraid
No trick dispels. Religion used to try,
That vast, moth-eaten musical brocade
Created to pretend we never die,
And specious stuff that says No rational being
Can fear a thing it will not feel, not seeing
That this is what we fear - no sight, no sound,
No touch or taste or smell, nothing to think with,
Nothing to love or link with,
The anasthetic from which none come round.
And so it stays just on the edge of vision,
A small, unfocused blur, a standing chill
That slows each impulse down to indecision.
Most things may never happen: this one will,
And realisation of it rages out
In furnace-fear when we are caught without
People or drink. Courage is no good:
It means not scaring others. Being brave
Lets no one off the grave.
Death is no different whined at than withstood.
Slowly light strengthens, and the room takes shape.
It stands plain as a wardrobe, what we know,
Have always known, know that we can't escape,
Yet can't accept. One side will have to go.
Meanwhile telephones crouch, getting ready to ring
In locked-up offices, and all the uncaring
Intricate rented world begins to rouse.
The sky is white as clay, with no sun.
Work has to be done.
Postmen like doctors go from house to house.
- Philip Larkin
(este é a pensar nos energúmenos que me secam os dias, agarrados a artifícios zelotas e autocráticos aos quais se agarram para não dar em loucos com as verdades do mundo)
22.3.05
21.3.05
Autumn Day
Lord: it is time. The summer was immense.
Lay your shadow on the sundials
and let loose the wind in the fields.
Bid the last fruits to be full;
give them another two more southerly days,
press them to ripeness, and chase
the last sweetness into the heavy wine.
Whoever has no house now will not build one
anymore.
Whoever is alone now will remain so for a long
time,
will stay up, read, write long letters,
and wander the avenues, up and down,
restlessly, while the leaves are blowing.
Rainer Maria Rilke
-x--x--x--x--x--x--x--x--x--x-
Dulce et Decorum Est
1 Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
2 Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
3 Till on the haunting flares we turned out backs,
4 And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
5 Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,
6 But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame, all blind;
7 Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
8 Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.
9 Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!--An ecstasy of fumbling
10 Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,
11 But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
12 And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime.--
13 Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,
14 As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
15 In all my dreams before my helpless sight
16 He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
17 If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace
18 Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
19 And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
20 His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin,
21 If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
22 Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs
23 Bitter as the cud
24 Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,--
25 My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
26 To children ardent for some desperate glory,
27 The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
28 Pro patria mori.
Wilfred Owen
-x--x--x--x--x--x--x--x--x--x--x--x--x-
Alone
From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I loved, I loved alone.
Then- in my childhood, in the dawn
Of a most stormy life- was drawn
From every depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still:
From the torrent, or the fountain,
From the red cliff of the mountain,
From the sun that round me rolled
In its autumn tint of gold,
From the lightning in the sky
As it passed me flying by,
From the thunder and the storm,
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view.
Edgar Allan Poe
Lord: it is time. The summer was immense.
Lay your shadow on the sundials
and let loose the wind in the fields.
Bid the last fruits to be full;
give them another two more southerly days,
press them to ripeness, and chase
the last sweetness into the heavy wine.
Whoever has no house now will not build one
anymore.
Whoever is alone now will remain so for a long
time,
will stay up, read, write long letters,
and wander the avenues, up and down,
restlessly, while the leaves are blowing.
Rainer Maria Rilke
-x--x--x--x--x--x--x--x--x--x-
Dulce et Decorum Est
1 Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
2 Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
3 Till on the haunting flares we turned out backs,
4 And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
5 Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,
6 But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame, all blind;
7 Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
8 Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.
9 Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!--An ecstasy of fumbling
10 Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,
11 But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
12 And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime.--
13 Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,
14 As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
15 In all my dreams before my helpless sight
16 He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
17 If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace
18 Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
19 And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
20 His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin,
21 If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
22 Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs
23 Bitter as the cud
24 Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,--
25 My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
26 To children ardent for some desperate glory,
27 The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
28 Pro patria mori.
Wilfred Owen
-x--x--x--x--x--x--x--x--x--x--x--x--x-
Alone
From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I loved, I loved alone.
Then- in my childhood, in the dawn
Of a most stormy life- was drawn
From every depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still:
From the torrent, or the fountain,
From the red cliff of the mountain,
From the sun that round me rolled
In its autumn tint of gold,
From the lightning in the sky
As it passed me flying by,
From the thunder and the storm,
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view.
Edgar Allan Poe
18.3.05
Cântico em Honra dos Ferreiros
Ó vós, nove ferreiros brancos de Boshintoj,
senhores da faúlha que voa,
das ressoantes, retumbantes alfaias,
da firme bigorna de aço
e da lima que range -
vós, que descestes a este mundo
com um molde de prata no peito
e as tenazes na mão esquerda!
Poderosa é a magia da forja,
e admiráveis os prodígios
e o poder dos vossos foles -
ó vós, nove ferreiros brancos de Boshintoj
montados nos vossos nove cavalos brancos
a faúlha do vosso fogo é soberana!
(Mongólia, Buriatos)
Ó vós, nove ferreiros brancos de Boshintoj,
senhores da faúlha que voa,
das ressoantes, retumbantes alfaias,
da firme bigorna de aço
e da lima que range -
vós, que descestes a este mundo
com um molde de prata no peito
e as tenazes na mão esquerda!
Poderosa é a magia da forja,
e admiráveis os prodígios
e o poder dos vossos foles -
ó vós, nove ferreiros brancos de Boshintoj
montados nos vossos nove cavalos brancos
a faúlha do vosso fogo é soberana!
(Mongólia, Buriatos)
17.3.05
nao tenho net.
em qualquer país descontavam-me da factura os dias perdidos. aqui não. tenho que ficar até Às 23:00 à espera que não se esqueçam de mim.
hoje senti-me como o roddy piper no they live. quando saí do 7º piso tirei a camisa para fora, farto de me sentir como um pargo de hipermercado, apertado e hirto.
andei até benfica. pela 2ª circular e por dentro de bairros que não conhecia. três mulheres com 19 ou 20 anos, numa carrinha bmw, ofereceram-me boleia. não quis, andava mais depressa assim. fomos a rir uns 500 metros, lado a lado.
depois comprei o que tinha a comprar e vim de metro para casa. aproveitei e conversei com dois trabalhadores das obras, eslavos, e ao sair, com uma puta, pobre meretriz, brasileira e que me distraiu por mais 300 metros.
mas porque é que não tenho net? pela mesma razão que se morre em lista de espera ou passado a ferro numa autoestrada.
duvidam?
vem aí um verão de fogo. seco, quente, assassino. espero bem que não. ou que ao menos sirva para ilustrar uma idéia que há já muito que deveria ser lugar-comum: o mundo não se compadece com espécies destas.
em qualquer país descontavam-me da factura os dias perdidos. aqui não. tenho que ficar até Às 23:00 à espera que não se esqueçam de mim.
hoje senti-me como o roddy piper no they live. quando saí do 7º piso tirei a camisa para fora, farto de me sentir como um pargo de hipermercado, apertado e hirto.
andei até benfica. pela 2ª circular e por dentro de bairros que não conhecia. três mulheres com 19 ou 20 anos, numa carrinha bmw, ofereceram-me boleia. não quis, andava mais depressa assim. fomos a rir uns 500 metros, lado a lado.
depois comprei o que tinha a comprar e vim de metro para casa. aproveitei e conversei com dois trabalhadores das obras, eslavos, e ao sair, com uma puta, pobre meretriz, brasileira e que me distraiu por mais 300 metros.
mas porque é que não tenho net? pela mesma razão que se morre em lista de espera ou passado a ferro numa autoestrada.
duvidam?
vem aí um verão de fogo. seco, quente, assassino. espero bem que não. ou que ao menos sirva para ilustrar uma idéia que há já muito que deveria ser lugar-comum: o mundo não se compadece com espécies destas.
15.3.05
somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near
your slightest look will easily unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose
or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing
(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands
- e.e. cummings
somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near
your slightest look will easily unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose
or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing
(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands
- e.e. cummings
Quando era pequeno, devia ter uns 6 ou 7 anos, tive sarampo. Fiz uma febre inicial de 41º, depois 42º, com quebras entre os 39.5º e os 40º, numa altura em que o Dolviran era dado em tomas de 8 em 8 horas, em casos limite. Desde os 4 anos que "sabia" como ajudar o meu corpo a não se deixar afectar tanto, ou tão depressa, por doenças. Se calhar por isso hoje, que acredito menos em magia, ou por outra, hoje que acredito em igual medida mas não consigo ver tanta dessa magia, tenho tendência para uma certa nóia quase hipocondríaca. No final dessa semana, os meus pais tiveram de mudar todo o meu quarto, arejá-lo, até deitar fora o colchão (estava impregnado) e quando o removeram, pasmaram, porque o estrado da cama (de bom aglomerado) tinha o contorno do meu corpo marcado, nitidamente delineado. Queimei a coisa cá dentro. Pergunto-me se hoje poderia tê-lo feito.
14.3.05
Agent Green
I hold the key to the world's security
Any price they'll pay to me, pay to me
I see the signs, and I heed the call, no one will know me, no one at all
Freedom is calling, the money's green, and to no country will I pledge my loyalty
I pass for someone who no one knows, I am the wolf who hides in political sheep's clothes
A peaceful world in jeopardy, it doesn't really matter all that much to me
If the people knew all that I know about their leaders and the ones who run the show
More cover-ups, legal deceit, there is no one in power who can destroy me!
I hold the key to the world's security
Any price they'll pay to me, pay to me
Change my face somewhere, lose myself out there
Change the way I speak, my past I will delete
I'll never know just how I made it out alive
But when I look into the future I look through a different eye
It doesn't really matter what they need to know
'Cause I can blow the lid off any scandal that they want to be exposed
I hold the key to the world's security
Any price they'll pay to me, pay to me
I'll change my name, a different look, another page in my life's book
It makes no difference just who I am, I'll take the money from Mother Russia or Uncle Sam
I'm filled with secrets of a nation, here at your disposal to benefit my greed
I take my liberties whereever I can find them, I am protected by the crime that lies behind
- K. Vanderhoof / M. Howe
Segue o teu destino,
Rega as tuas plantas,
Ama as tuas rosas.
O resto é a sombra
De árvores alheias.
A realidade
Sempre é mais ou menos
Do que nós queremos.
Só nós somos sempre
Iguais a nós-próprios.
Suave é viver só.
Grande e nobre é sempre
Viver simplesmente.
Deixa a dor nas aras
Como ex-voto aos deuses.
Vê de longe a vida.
Nunca a interrogues.
Ela nada pode
Dizer-te. A resposta
Está além dos deuses.
Mas serenamente
Imita o Olimpo
No teu coração.
Os deuses são deuses
Porque não se pensam.
- Ricardo Reis, 1-7-1916
Rega as tuas plantas,
Ama as tuas rosas.
O resto é a sombra
De árvores alheias.
A realidade
Sempre é mais ou menos
Do que nós queremos.
Só nós somos sempre
Iguais a nós-próprios.
Suave é viver só.
Grande e nobre é sempre
Viver simplesmente.
Deixa a dor nas aras
Como ex-voto aos deuses.
Vê de longe a vida.
Nunca a interrogues.
Ela nada pode
Dizer-te. A resposta
Está além dos deuses.
Mas serenamente
Imita o Olimpo
No teu coração.
Os deuses são deuses
Porque não se pensam.
- Ricardo Reis, 1-7-1916
225
(Sullivan/Heaton) 1988
She stares at the screen, at the little words of green
Tries to do remember what to do next
There's a trace of frustration that crosses her face
Searching for the key she should press
And I would help her if I only know how
But these things are a mystery to me too
And it seems that the Corporate eyes they are watching
She fears for her job and the moments are passing
I stare at her nametag and I think to myself
Both you and I, we never asked for any of this
So let's take a walk up past the chemical works
Where the sky turns green at night
And we'll talk about getting away from here
Some different kind of life
But even in the freshest mountain air
The jet fighters practise overhead
And they're drilling these hills for uranium deposits
And they'll bury the waste for our children to inherit
And though this is all done for our own benefit,
I swear we never asked for any of this
This golden age of communication
Means everyone talks at the same time
And liberty just means the freedom to exploit
Any weakness that you can find
Turn off the TV just for a while
Let us whisper to each other instead
And we'll hope that the Corporate ears do not listen
Lest we find ourselves committing some kind of treason
And filed in the tapes without rhyme, without reason
While they tell us that it's all for our own protection,
I swear we never asked for any of this
(Sullivan/Heaton) 1988
She stares at the screen, at the little words of green
Tries to do remember what to do next
There's a trace of frustration that crosses her face
Searching for the key she should press
And I would help her if I only know how
But these things are a mystery to me too
And it seems that the Corporate eyes they are watching
She fears for her job and the moments are passing
I stare at her nametag and I think to myself
Both you and I, we never asked for any of this
So let's take a walk up past the chemical works
Where the sky turns green at night
And we'll talk about getting away from here
Some different kind of life
But even in the freshest mountain air
The jet fighters practise overhead
And they're drilling these hills for uranium deposits
And they'll bury the waste for our children to inherit
And though this is all done for our own benefit,
I swear we never asked for any of this
This golden age of communication
Means everyone talks at the same time
And liberty just means the freedom to exploit
Any weakness that you can find
Turn off the TV just for a while
Let us whisper to each other instead
And we'll hope that the Corporate ears do not listen
Lest we find ourselves committing some kind of treason
And filed in the tapes without rhyme, without reason
While they tell us that it's all for our own protection,
I swear we never asked for any of this
In ancient Ireland if a traveler was to happen upon a woman with red hair he must turn around and start his journey all over again. The superstition comes from the legend of the goddess Macha who was said to have cursed the men of Ireland for nine generations with horrible pangs (like labor.)
The curse was not unwarranted of course. While in human form and pregnant the king of the land forced her to race against his fasted horses (for her husband had boasted of her speed) lest he be killed. She begged for sympathy and received none from the warriors in the crowd who were eager to see the sport. She won the race but the stress caused her to give birth to her children in the field. This is still known as Emain Macha (Macha's twins.) For causing her this pain she cursed the men of Ireland except the hero Cuchulainn and her own children. When war came to the land only Cuchulainn could fight.
Macha as it turns out, had red hair.
13.3.05
It's orchestrated by another hand
Believe inferior dreams that I am
Orchestrated I don't understand
Belief increasing in me that I am
If only we could see and live the dream
If only we could still believe the dream
Forever after
Forever after maybe (sing)
Forever After
Without frustration
With no master plan
With nothing left of the dream that began
If only we could see and live the dream
If only we could still believe the dream
Forever after
Forever after maybe (sing)
Forever After
Forever after
Forever after maybe (sing)
Forever After
If only we could see and live the dream
If only we could still believe the dream
Frailty, frailty
Say you love me, till I get back
Redshift
There's something in the air that greets me
There's something in the air
I don't know where I belong, or where does it go from here
See my dreams; they're not like anyone's
There's something in your stare that greets me
There's something in your stare that tells me where I belong
And where it all goes from here
I don't know where I belong or where it all goes from here
See my dreams; they're not like anyone's, anyone's
There's something in the air that greets me
There's something in the air
I don't know where I went wrong or where does it go from here
See my dreams; they're not like anyone's, anyone's
11.3.05
Há pouco diluí um Laphroaig 57.3 em 3 gotas de água cristalina. Comi uma fatiazita de bolo com frutos do bosque. Bosque. A segunda quinta-feira de cada mês é sempre uma agrura para mim. A manhã da segunda sexta-feira de cada mês é ainda mais difícil. E depois, durante duas semanas, disfarço-me de cordilheira agreste, transformo-me no cenário.
10.3.05
Cromos continuados, a saga eterna
Elizabeth Clare Profit (Oops! Typo. But I think it's so appropriate...) is not your friendly guide to angels and other happy, fluffy, loving creatures. Elizabeth Clare Prophet is actually the leader of a very dangerous Doomsday Cult based in Montana. Her cult has stockpiled massive amounts of ammunition and heavy-caliber weapons in underground bunkers. Sound familiar? Doesn't she sound sort of waco?
What I find equally disturbing about Prophet is the way she recruits members. If you had never heard of her, were the gullible type, and saw this ad, would you imagine what she's really up to there in Montana? Probably not.
Look at the ad and judge for yourself. It just reeks of positive, happy New Ageness. The only ingredient the ad is missing is the silhouette of a dolphin, a common visual in New Age ads. How 'bout some truth in advertising, Liz? Why don't you tell folks about the heavy weaponry and underground bunkers?
I Sit and Think
I sit beside the fire and think
of all that I have seen,
of meadow-flowers and butterflies
in summers that have been;
Of yellow leaves and gossamer
in autumns that there were,
with morning mist and silver sun
and wind upon my hair.
I sit beside the fire and think
of how the world will be
when winter comes without a spring
that I shall never see.
For still there are so many things
that I have never seen:
in every wood in every spring
there is a different green.
I sit beside the fire and think
of people long ago,
and people who will see a world
that I shall never know.
But all the while I sit and think
of times there were before,
I listen for returning feet
and voices at the door.
- JRR Tolkien
I sit beside the fire and think
of all that I have seen,
of meadow-flowers and butterflies
in summers that have been;
Of yellow leaves and gossamer
in autumns that there were,
with morning mist and silver sun
and wind upon my hair.
I sit beside the fire and think
of how the world will be
when winter comes without a spring
that I shall never see.
For still there are so many things
that I have never seen:
in every wood in every spring
there is a different green.
I sit beside the fire and think
of people long ago,
and people who will see a world
that I shall never know.
But all the while I sit and think
of times there were before,
I listen for returning feet
and voices at the door.
- JRR Tolkien
9.3.05
8.3.05
hoje
é dia para que sim
quem vem?
é dia para um filme
sometimes
sometimes you can't make it
era noite perdida num banco
aquela árvore secular
que dali tiraram
em nome dum cartaz vulgar
da nossa coutada
onde os gelados eram porto de abrigo
sometimes you don't
though it's you i will look
out for
hoje era dia para que ali
dali
me viesses buscar e tremesses comigo
na noite
nesta noite de ventos tímidos
nesta felicidade imensa que é ir
em silêncio
e buscar-me,
virias, sometimes
on your own
e o filme corre
sempre de pé
e escolheste igualmente calar o amor.
é dia para que sim
quem vem?
é dia para um filme
sometimes
sometimes you can't make it
era noite perdida num banco
aquela árvore secular
que dali tiraram
em nome dum cartaz vulgar
da nossa coutada
onde os gelados eram porto de abrigo
sometimes you don't
though it's you i will look
out for
hoje era dia para que ali
dali
me viesses buscar e tremesses comigo
na noite
nesta noite de ventos tímidos
nesta felicidade imensa que é ir
em silêncio
e buscar-me,
virias, sometimes
on your own
e o filme corre
sempre de pé
e escolheste igualmente calar o amor.
My Trinity
For all good friends who care to read,
here let me lyre my living creed . . .
One: you may deem me Pacifist,
For I've no sympathy with strife.
Like hell I hate the iron fist,
And shun the battle-ground of life.
The hope of peace is dear to me,
And I to Christian faith belong,
Holding that breath should sacred be,
And War is always wrong.
Two: Universalist am I
And dream a world that's frontier free,
With common tongue and common tie,
Uncurst by nationality;
Where colour, creed and class are one,
And lowly folk are lifted high;
Where every breed beneath the sun
Is equal in God's eye.
Three: you may call me Naturist,
For green glade is my quiet quest;
The path of progress I have missed,
And shun the city's sore unrest.
A world that's super-civilized
Is one of worry, want and woe;
In leafy lore let me be wised
And back to Nature go.
Well, though you may but half agree,
Behold my trusty Trinity
- Robert Service
For all good friends who care to read,
here let me lyre my living creed . . .
One: you may deem me Pacifist,
For I've no sympathy with strife.
Like hell I hate the iron fist,
And shun the battle-ground of life.
The hope of peace is dear to me,
And I to Christian faith belong,
Holding that breath should sacred be,
And War is always wrong.
Two: Universalist am I
And dream a world that's frontier free,
With common tongue and common tie,
Uncurst by nationality;
Where colour, creed and class are one,
And lowly folk are lifted high;
Where every breed beneath the sun
Is equal in God's eye.
Three: you may call me Naturist,
For green glade is my quiet quest;
The path of progress I have missed,
And shun the city's sore unrest.
A world that's super-civilized
Is one of worry, want and woe;
In leafy lore let me be wised
And back to Nature go.
Well, though you may but half agree,
Behold my trusty Trinity
- Robert Service
Growing Old
Somehow the skies don't seem so blue
As they used to be;
Blossoms have a fainter hue,
Grass less green I see.
There's no twinkle in a star,
Dawns don't seem so gold . . .
Yet, of course, I know they are:
Guess I'm growing old.
Somehow sunshine seems less bright,
Birds less gladly sing;
Moons don't thrill me with delight,
There's no kick in Spring.
Hills are steeper now and I'm
Sensitive to cold;
Lines are not so keen to rhyme . . .
Gosh! I'm growing old.
Yet in spite of failing things
I've no cause to grieve;
Age with all its ailing brings
Blessings, I believe:
Kindo' gentles up the mind
As the hope we hold
That with loving we will find
Friendliness in human kind,
Grace in growing old.
- Robert Service
Somehow the skies don't seem so blue
As they used to be;
Blossoms have a fainter hue,
Grass less green I see.
There's no twinkle in a star,
Dawns don't seem so gold . . .
Yet, of course, I know they are:
Guess I'm growing old.
Somehow sunshine seems less bright,
Birds less gladly sing;
Moons don't thrill me with delight,
There's no kick in Spring.
Hills are steeper now and I'm
Sensitive to cold;
Lines are not so keen to rhyme . . .
Gosh! I'm growing old.
Yet in spite of failing things
I've no cause to grieve;
Age with all its ailing brings
Blessings, I believe:
Kindo' gentles up the mind
As the hope we hold
That with loving we will find
Friendliness in human kind,
Grace in growing old.
- Robert Service
Agnostic
The chapel looms against the sky,
Above the vine-clad shelves,
And as the peasants pass it by
They cross themselves.
But I alone, I grieve to state,
Lack sentiment divine:
A citified sophisticate,
I make no sign.
Their gesture may a habit be,
Mechanic in a sense,
Yet somehow it awakes in me
Strange reverence.
And though from ignorance it stem,
Somehow I deeply grieve,
And wish down in my heart like them
I could believe.
Suppose a cottage I should buy,
And little patch of vine,
With pure and humble spirit I
Might make the Sign.
Aye, though I godless way I go,
And sceptic in my trend,
A faith in something I don't know
Might save me in the end.
- Robert Service
The chapel looms against the sky,
Above the vine-clad shelves,
And as the peasants pass it by
They cross themselves.
But I alone, I grieve to state,
Lack sentiment divine:
A citified sophisticate,
I make no sign.
Their gesture may a habit be,
Mechanic in a sense,
Yet somehow it awakes in me
Strange reverence.
And though from ignorance it stem,
Somehow I deeply grieve,
And wish down in my heart like them
I could believe.
Suppose a cottage I should buy,
And little patch of vine,
With pure and humble spirit I
Might make the Sign.
Aye, though I godless way I go,
And sceptic in my trend,
A faith in something I don't know
Might save me in the end.
- Robert Service
Especially When the October Wind
Especially when the October wind
With frosty fingers punishes my hair,
Caught by the crabbing sun I walk on fire
And cast a shadow crab upon the land,
By the sea's side, hearing the noise of birds,
Hearing the raven cough in winter sticks,
My busy heart who shudders as she talks
Sheds the syllabic blood and drains her words.
Shut, too, in a tower of words, I mark
On the horizon walking like the trees
The wordy shapes of women, and the rows
Of the star-gestured children in the park.
Some let me make you of the vowelled beeches,
Some of the oaken voices, from the roots
Of many a thorny shire tell you notes,
Some let me make you of the water's speeches.
Behind a pot of ferns the wagging clock
Tells me the hour's word, the neural meaning
Flies on the shafted disk, declaims the morning
And tells the windy weather in the cock.
Some let me make you of the meadow's signs;
The signal grass that tells me all I know
Breaks with the wormy winter through the eye.
Some let me tell you of the raven's sins.
Especially when the October wind
(Some let me make you of autumnal spells,
The spider-tongued, and the loud hill of Wales)
With fists of turnips punishes the land,
Some let me make you of the heartless words.
The heart is drained that, spelling in the scurry
Of chemic blood, warned of the coming fury.
By the sea's side hear the dark-vowelled birds.
Dylan Thomas
------------------------------
Light breaks where no sun shines
Light breaks where no sun shines;
Where no sea runs, the waters of the heart
Push in their tides;
And, broken ghosts with glowworms in their heads,
The things of light
File through the flesh where no flesh decks the bones.
A candle in the thighs
Warms youth and seed and burns the seeds of age;
Where no seed stirs,
The fruit of man unwrinkles in the stars,
Bright as a fig;
Where no wax is, the candle shows its hairs.
Dawn breaks behind the eyes;
From poles of skull and toe the windy blood
Slides like a sea;
Nor fenced, nor staked, the gushers of the sky
Spout to the rod
Divining in a smile the oil of tears.
Night in the sockets rounds,
Like some pitch moon, the limit of the globes;
Day lights the bone;
Where no cold is, the skinning gales unpin
The winter's robes;
The film of spring is hanging from the lids.
Light breaks on secret lots,
On tips of thought where thoughts smell in the rain;
When logics die,
The secret of the soil grows through the eye,
And blood jumps in the sun;
Above the waste allotments the dawn halts.
Dylan Thomas
________________________
Sometimes the Sky's Too Bright
Sometimes the sky's too bright,
Or has too many clouds or birds,
And far away's too sharp a sun
To nourish thinking of him.
Why is my hand too blunt
To cut in front of me
My horrid images for me,
Of over-fruitful smiles,
The weightless touching of the lip
I wish to know
I cannot lift, but can,
The creature with the angel's face
Who tells me hurt,
And sees my body go
Down into misery?
No stopping. Put the smile
Where tears have come to dry.
The angel's hurt is left;
His telling burns.
Sometimes a woman's heart has salt,
Or too much blood;
I tear her breast,
And see the blood is mine,
Flowing from her, but mine,
And then I think
Perhaps the sky's too bright;
And watch my hand,
But do not follow it,
And feel the pain it gives,
But do not ache.
Dylan Thomas
7.3.05
Virá certamente um dia
em que o tempo está todo
atrás de nós e o sonho
ainda intacto, coxeia
Nada mudará, como nunca
nada mudou, mas apenas
esta sensação mais premente
que a luz decai no nosso horizonte
Quem deixamos ou encontramos
que voltas podemos dar, já tontos
com os pés encolhidos no limite
da linha de fim da estrada
Deixámos passar tudo, e se não
fosse assim, seria exactamente
da mesma forma, e teríamos
guardado os mesmos tesouros
Pousamos as armas aos pés da Vida
nunca as usámos, nem poderíamos
o acaso e um vento nos empurrou
de dia para dia, com a esperança
de coisas que nem queríamos
Foi tudo quase nosso: o grito, o riso,
os pés de criança nas águas límpidas,
o pulo na onda enorme, a areia quente
e grossa, por entre os dedos
Foi tudo quase nosso: o teu olhar
perdido, os poemas gritados ao luar
os cacos, os gemidos, o sangue
a fúria da certeza que ia deixar de ser
Fui tudo quase nosso, num momento
no seguinte passou ao olhar do lado
à ânsia do próximo, ao ventre daquela
mulher sentada onde não há tempo
nem mais nada
- A.C.
Acredita em mim se eu te disser
que os dias torpes nao me servem
enrolado, atado em palavras curtas
aquelas que melhor te descrevem
Acredita em mim quando, cigano,
rebento a rir com a frase ainda a meio
e de olhos nos interminaveis dias azuis,
eu te disser que nada, nada receio
Acredita nestes bons instantes, fugazes
nas visoes simples, conversas sem fim
e aqui chegados, o melhor que tu fazes
é tudo, creio eu, menos acreditar em mim.
6.3.05
Domingo, em plena seca, no auge da aridez cáustica, apex destes seis meses em que a luz solar, em torrentes, não fez voltar costas ao toque gélido da apreensão, da deriva. Domingo, dia a enfiar na prateleira por excelência, Parque das Nações, Lisboa. Sem ter onde estacionar. Sem ter como fugir à licantropia que aflige os condutores, habituados apenas a produzir vida em monotarefa, que se deixam transportar para os roços do choque inesperado. Sem ter onde parar. Sem ar. A luz banha tudo inclemente. O ar é o mesmo, cubo a cubo, há duzentos dias. Luz. Limbo. Todos, sempre, no mesmo sítio nos mesmos dias às mesmas horas. Eu ali por acaso. Sem ter onde arrumar, em nome das eleições de há dez dias. De há quatro anos, há oito, há vinte. Sempre, ainda e sempre, uma república das bananas governada por sacanas. Hoje não houve pachorra. Lá se aguentou, para dentro, por dentro. Amanhã torno a reinventar a sobrevivência.
City of blinding lights
The more you see the less you know
The less you find out as you go
I knew much more then than I do now
Neon heart, day-glow eyes
The city lit by fireflies
They're advertising in the skies
And people like us
And I miss you when you're not around
I'm getting ready to leave the ground
Oh you look so beautiful tonight
In the city of blinding lights
Don't look before you laugh
Look ugly in a photograph
Flash bulbs, purple irises the camera can't see
I've seen you walk unafraid
I've seen you in the clothes you've made
Can you see the beauty inside of me?
What happened to the beauty I had inside of me?
And I miss you when you're not around
I'm getting ready to leave the ground
Oh you look so beautiful tonight
In the city of blinding lights
Time...time...time...time...time won't leave me as I am
But time won't take the boy out of this man
Oh you look so beautiful tonight
Oh you look so beautiful tonight
Oh you look so beautiful tonight
In the city of blinding lights
The more you know the less you feel
Some pray for, others steal
Blessings not just for the ones who kneel
Luckily
may my heart always be open to little
birds who are the secrets of living
whatever they sing is better than to know
and if men should not hear them men are old
may my mind stroll about hungry
and fearless and thirsty and supple
and even if it's sunday may i be wrong
for whenever men are right they are not young
and may myself do nothing usefully
and love yourself so more than truly
there's never been quite such a fool who could fail
pulling all the sky over him with one smile
-e.e. cummings
birds who are the secrets of living
whatever they sing is better than to know
and if men should not hear them men are old
may my mind stroll about hungry
and fearless and thirsty and supple
and even if it's sunday may i be wrong
for whenever men are right they are not young
and may myself do nothing usefully
and love yourself so more than truly
there's never been quite such a fool who could fail
pulling all the sky over him with one smile
-e.e. cummings
5.3.05
O Random Precision que me desculpe mas esta TEM que entrar aqui!
"A D. Silvina tinha uma pequena loja de pronto-a-vestir de senhora.
Não que precisasse: com os filhos já arrumados, o ordenado que o marido recebia no banco chegava perfeitamente para viverem confortavelmente. Ainda por cima com a reforma da mãe, que vivia com eles.
Mas era um aconchego ao orçamento familiar. E depois, sempre estava entretida.
Mas às vezes até uma pequena loja traz os seus problemas e causa os seus dissabores.
Foi o que aconteceu com o caso da D. Maria Ribeiro:
Não é que aquela malandra, que sempre tinha considerado amiga e uma pessoa séria, lhe tinha passado um cheque de 30 contos para pagamento de umas roupas, e o cheque tinha sido devolvido por falta de provisão?
Escreveu-lhe cartas sem fim, que ela já não atendia o telefone. Mandou-lhe recados por toda a gente que a conhecia. Nada!
Até que, quase a terminarem os seis meses, apresentou queixa crime.
Mais de três anos depois, foi chamada a julgamento na qualidade de testemunha do Ministério Público.
A arguida faltou e o julgamento foi adiado.
Na segunda data, novo adiamento. Ao que parece, nem sequer a tinham ainda conseguido notificar.
Seis meses depois, novo julgamento. E mais um adiamento.
Uma semana depois, outro ainda. Já era o quarto.
A loja fechada e as deslocações ao Tribunal, já lhe estavam mais caras que o raio dos 30 contos do cheque.
Uns tempos depois, recebeu um postal do Tribunal com a marcação das duas novas datas – mas somente para daí a um ano e três meses: uma quinta-feira e a segunda-feira seguinte.
Preocupada, colou o postal com um bocado de fita gomada ao pé do telefone.
No preciso dia em que o julgamento estava marcado, a mãe morreu.
Foi dar com ela caída ao fundo das escadas. Chamou os Bombeiros, que se limitaram a confirmar o óbito.
Claro que nem lhe passou pela cabeça o julgamento.
Como teve de ser feita autópsia e se meteu o fim de semana, o funeral foi marcado para segunda-feira. Saía da igreja lá da terra para o cemitério próximo.
A missa de corpo presente estava marcada para as 10 horas.
Ainda não eram 9 horas, entraram dois soldados da GNR na capela mortuária. Tinham um mandado para a conduzir ao Tribunal por causa do julgamento do cheque.
Um mandado? Mas ela não era a queixosa?
Pois, mas como tinha faltado na quinta-feira anterior, a juíza tinha-a condenado a pagar uma multa de 36 contos, e tinha ordenado que a GNR a fosse buscar, para não faltar outra vez.
Mas estava no funeral da mãe!
Não podiam os senhores agentes ter um bocadinho de compreensão?
Mas não, estavam só a cumprir ordens superiores.
Ao menos assistir à missa?
Não: a missa era às 10 e a essa hora já tinham de estar no tribunal.
Ninguém queria acreditar no que se estava a passar:
Completamente atónitos, todos viram a D. Silvina, debaixo de um choro incontrolável a ser arrancada ao funeral da própria mãe para ser conduzida ao Tribunal com um escolta da GNR, ainda por cima para ser testemunha num processo em que era queixosa.
Já depois das 11 da manhã chamaram-na à sala de audiências.
Sem conseguir deter as lágrimas, explicou à juíza que o que queria era estar no funeral da mãe, de onde tinha sido forçada a sair pela GNR.
Se calhar, àquela hora o funeral até já tinha acabado.
Mas a juíza explicou-lhe calmamente que era assim, e quais as obrigações legais de um cidadão perante a justiça.
Mas foi muita cordial com a D. Silvina: explicou-lhe que o Tribunal continuava sem descobrir o paradeiro da arguida para a notificar. Pediu-lhe desculpa e tudo.
E uma vez mais adiou o julgamento..."
"A D. Silvina tinha uma pequena loja de pronto-a-vestir de senhora.
Não que precisasse: com os filhos já arrumados, o ordenado que o marido recebia no banco chegava perfeitamente para viverem confortavelmente. Ainda por cima com a reforma da mãe, que vivia com eles.
Mas era um aconchego ao orçamento familiar. E depois, sempre estava entretida.
Mas às vezes até uma pequena loja traz os seus problemas e causa os seus dissabores.
Foi o que aconteceu com o caso da D. Maria Ribeiro:
Não é que aquela malandra, que sempre tinha considerado amiga e uma pessoa séria, lhe tinha passado um cheque de 30 contos para pagamento de umas roupas, e o cheque tinha sido devolvido por falta de provisão?
Escreveu-lhe cartas sem fim, que ela já não atendia o telefone. Mandou-lhe recados por toda a gente que a conhecia. Nada!
Até que, quase a terminarem os seis meses, apresentou queixa crime.
Mais de três anos depois, foi chamada a julgamento na qualidade de testemunha do Ministério Público.
A arguida faltou e o julgamento foi adiado.
Na segunda data, novo adiamento. Ao que parece, nem sequer a tinham ainda conseguido notificar.
Seis meses depois, novo julgamento. E mais um adiamento.
Uma semana depois, outro ainda. Já era o quarto.
A loja fechada e as deslocações ao Tribunal, já lhe estavam mais caras que o raio dos 30 contos do cheque.
Uns tempos depois, recebeu um postal do Tribunal com a marcação das duas novas datas – mas somente para daí a um ano e três meses: uma quinta-feira e a segunda-feira seguinte.
Preocupada, colou o postal com um bocado de fita gomada ao pé do telefone.
No preciso dia em que o julgamento estava marcado, a mãe morreu.
Foi dar com ela caída ao fundo das escadas. Chamou os Bombeiros, que se limitaram a confirmar o óbito.
Claro que nem lhe passou pela cabeça o julgamento.
Como teve de ser feita autópsia e se meteu o fim de semana, o funeral foi marcado para segunda-feira. Saía da igreja lá da terra para o cemitério próximo.
A missa de corpo presente estava marcada para as 10 horas.
Ainda não eram 9 horas, entraram dois soldados da GNR na capela mortuária. Tinham um mandado para a conduzir ao Tribunal por causa do julgamento do cheque.
Um mandado? Mas ela não era a queixosa?
Pois, mas como tinha faltado na quinta-feira anterior, a juíza tinha-a condenado a pagar uma multa de 36 contos, e tinha ordenado que a GNR a fosse buscar, para não faltar outra vez.
Mas estava no funeral da mãe!
Não podiam os senhores agentes ter um bocadinho de compreensão?
Mas não, estavam só a cumprir ordens superiores.
Ao menos assistir à missa?
Não: a missa era às 10 e a essa hora já tinham de estar no tribunal.
Ninguém queria acreditar no que se estava a passar:
Completamente atónitos, todos viram a D. Silvina, debaixo de um choro incontrolável a ser arrancada ao funeral da própria mãe para ser conduzida ao Tribunal com um escolta da GNR, ainda por cima para ser testemunha num processo em que era queixosa.
Já depois das 11 da manhã chamaram-na à sala de audiências.
Sem conseguir deter as lágrimas, explicou à juíza que o que queria era estar no funeral da mãe, de onde tinha sido forçada a sair pela GNR.
Se calhar, àquela hora o funeral até já tinha acabado.
Mas a juíza explicou-lhe calmamente que era assim, e quais as obrigações legais de um cidadão perante a justiça.
Mas foi muita cordial com a D. Silvina: explicou-lhe que o Tribunal continuava sem descobrir o paradeiro da arguida para a notificar. Pediu-lhe desculpa e tudo.
E uma vez mais adiou o julgamento..."
lá tive que te pôr de castigo. esqueceste-te do caderno pela enésima vez, e custou-me, acredita que custou. sobretudo depois de termos andado a manhã toda de roda das árvores, fiquei todo inchado quando te vi erguer a mangueira, pesadíssima, para encher o meu balde com água ; e depois de termos plantado as dez que faltavam. e bem sei que estás muitos furos acima do que te é pedido. mas teve que ser, são coisas que precisas de moldar, de aprender a dominar. claro que eu não tinha castigos assim, o meu pai não se espojava no chão do meu quarto a construir torres enormes, com peças magnéticas e magnetizadas, a ouvir cds e a falar, quando eu ficava de castigo. logo no banho paga-las todas, dou-te o shampoo de maçã em vez do outro, de pêssego, e obrigo-te a usar a esponja grande. vais ver ;)
4.3.05
Três conceitos preocupantes que se entranham neste projecto de sociedade que é o Portugal urbano, sobretudo, e rendo-me tremebundo ao notá-lo,entre os elementos de menor idade biológica.
"Ter que respeitar e aceitar a diferença"
Mas porquê? Aceitar a diferença e ser tolerante faz sentido desde que falemos de disparidades inócuas e cujas características permitam, por seu turno, a coexistência com as das restantes convicções. Caso contrário, não faz qualquer sentido, nem torna alguém mais civilizado, obrigarmo-nos a deglutir aquilo que não achamos justo "porque não podemos ser intolerantes". O problema dos tolerantes é ficarem à mercê dos intolerantes.
"O trabalho"
Mas que trabalho? Vacinar crianças? Desarmar minas? Salvar lémures-de-cauda da extinção? Prevenir os fogos? Debulhar a Cova da Moura? Que trabalho? Encher as bolsas dos sem-nome que vingam, em palácios de mármore, enquanto o tempo passa anestesiando os que pretendem ser vivos? Estou doente / Então a que horas vens? / Hoje não vou / Essas atitudes são estranhas, olha que isto é o teu trabalho, vê lá. Que trabalho? Que mesquinhez, que escol de maleitas pode afligir tanta gente, que fiquem turbados pelas vãs construções às quais se apegam, épocas inteiras, o sangue e as costas num formulário que é alterado a cada semana que se segue?
"A abertura de espírito"
Não está às mesas apertadas e servidas por imberbes, pertença do refinamento autocrático sociocultural que se fez de passagem administrativa entre cravos e tanques. Mas há quem creia que sim e até se extreme digladiando amigos por tais noções.
E não chove.
"Ter que respeitar e aceitar a diferença"
Mas porquê? Aceitar a diferença e ser tolerante faz sentido desde que falemos de disparidades inócuas e cujas características permitam, por seu turno, a coexistência com as das restantes convicções. Caso contrário, não faz qualquer sentido, nem torna alguém mais civilizado, obrigarmo-nos a deglutir aquilo que não achamos justo "porque não podemos ser intolerantes". O problema dos tolerantes é ficarem à mercê dos intolerantes.
"O trabalho"
Mas que trabalho? Vacinar crianças? Desarmar minas? Salvar lémures-de-cauda da extinção? Prevenir os fogos? Debulhar a Cova da Moura? Que trabalho? Encher as bolsas dos sem-nome que vingam, em palácios de mármore, enquanto o tempo passa anestesiando os que pretendem ser vivos? Estou doente / Então a que horas vens? / Hoje não vou / Essas atitudes são estranhas, olha que isto é o teu trabalho, vê lá. Que trabalho? Que mesquinhez, que escol de maleitas pode afligir tanta gente, que fiquem turbados pelas vãs construções às quais se apegam, épocas inteiras, o sangue e as costas num formulário que é alterado a cada semana que se segue?
"A abertura de espírito"
Não está às mesas apertadas e servidas por imberbes, pertença do refinamento autocrático sociocultural que se fez de passagem administrativa entre cravos e tanques. Mas há quem creia que sim e até se extreme digladiando amigos por tais noções.
E não chove.
3.3.05
2.3.05
1.3.05
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