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
Subscrever:
Mensagens (Atom)