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

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

Forever after
Forever after maybe (sing)
Forever After

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.

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

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.

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

Like Zeus on acid.

Tradição e Excelência

SEMPRE NOUTRA ONDA

Anno 1971

nights are okay to relax and enjoy some stuff.

evenings are good for beer and friends.

mornings to work.

and the dawn to make love, walk and conquer the world.

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.

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

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

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

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