What Will You Be?

They never stop asking me
"What will you be?--
A doctor, a dancer,
A diver at sea?"

They never stop bugging me:
"What will you be?"
As if they expect me to
Stop being me.

When I grow up I'm going to be a Sneeze,
And sprinkle Germs on all my Enemies.

When I grow up I'm going to be a Toad,
And dump on Silly Questions in the road.

When I grow up, I'm going to be a Child.
I'll Play the whole darn day and drive them Wild.

-Dennis Lee

.
.
Fugue of Death
.
Black milk of daybreak we drink it at nightfall
we drink it at noon in the morning we drink it at night
we drink it and drink it
we are digging a grave in the sky it is ample to lie there
A man in the house he plays with the serpents he writes
he writes when the night falls to Germany your golden
hair Margarete
he writes it and walks from the house the stars glitter he
whistles his dogs up
he whistles his Jews out and orders a grave to be dug in
the earth
he commands us strike up for the dance

Black milk of daybreak we drink you at night
we drink you in the morning at noon we drink you at
nightfall
drink you and drink you
A man in the house he plays with the serpents he writes
he writes when the night falls to Germany your golden
hair Margarete
Your ashen hair Shulamith we are digging a grave in the
sky it is
ample to lie there

He shouts stab deeper in earth you there and you others
you sing and you play
he grabs at the iron in his belt and swings it and blue are
his eyes
stab deeper your spades you there and you others play on
for the dancing

Black milk of daybreak we drink you at nightfall
we drink you at noon in the mornings we drink you at
nightfall
drink you and drink you
a man in the house your golden hair Margarete
your ashen hair Shulamith he plays with the serpents

He shouts play sweeter death's music death comes as a
master from Germany
he shouts stroke darker the strings and as smoke you
shall climb to the sky
then you'll have a grave in the clouds it is ample to lie
there

Black milk of daybreak we drink you at night
we drink you at noon death comes as a master from
Germany
we drink you at nightfall and morning we drink you and
drink you
a master from Germany death comes with eyes that are
blue
with a bullet of lead he will hit in the mark he will hit
you
a man in the house your golden hair Margarete
he hunts us down with his dogs in the sky he gives us a
grave
he plays with the serpents and dreams death comes as a
master from Germany

your golden hair Margarete
your ashen hair Shulamith.
.
.
Paul Celan.
Translated by Christopher Middleton
.
.

.
.
Ere the birth of my life, if I wished it or no
No question was asked me--it could not be so !
If the life was the question, a thing sent to try
And to live on be YES; what can NO be ? to die.
.
NATURE'S ANSWER
.
Is't returned, as 'twas sent ? Is't no worse for the wear ?
Think first, what you ARE ! Call to mind what you WERE !
I gave you innocence, I gave you hope,
Gave health, and genius, and an ample scope,
Return you me guilt, lethargy, despair ?
Make out the invent'ry ; inspect, compare !
Then die--if die you dare !
.
Samuel Taylor Coleridge
.
.


.
.
Who Goes Home?
.
In the city set upon slime and loam
They cry in their parliament 'Who goes home?'
And there comes no answer in arch or dome,
For none in the city of graves goes home.
Yet these shall perish and understand,
For God has pity on this great land.
.
Men that are men again; who goes home?
Tocsin and trumpeter! Who goes home?
For there's blood on the field and blood on the foam
And blood on the body when Man goes home.
And a voice valedictory . . . Who is for Victory?
Who is for Liberty? Who goes home?
.
G. K. Chesterton
.
.


.
.
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
.
.

.
.
There Will Come Soft Rains
.
(War Time)
.
There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground,
And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;
.
And frogs in the pools singing at night,
And wild plum trees in tremulous white,
.
Robins will wear their feathery fire
Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire;
.
And not one will know of the war, not one
Will care at last when it is done.
.
Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree
If mankind perished utterly;
.
And Spring herself, when she woke at dawn,
Would scarcely know that we were gone.
.
Sara Teasdale
.
.


.
.
Carrion Comfort
.
Not, I'll not, carrion comfort, Despair, not feast on thee;
Not untwist--slack they may be--these last strands of man
In me ór, most weary, cry I can no more. I can;
Can something, hope, wish day come, not choose not to be.
.
But ah, but O thou terrible, why wouldst thou rude on me
Thy wring-world right foot rock? lay a lionlimb against me? scan
With darksome devouring eyes my bruisèd bones? and fan,
O in turns of tempest, me heaped there; me frantic to avoid thee
and flee?
.
Why? That my chaff might fly; my grain lie, sheer and clear.
Nay in all that toil, that coil, since (seems) I kissed the rod,
Hand rather, my heart lo! lapped strength, stole joy, would laugh, chéer.
Cheer whom though? The hero whose heaven-handling flung me,
fóot tród
Me? or me that fought him? O which one? is it each one? That night,
that year
Of now done darkness I wretch lay wrestling with (my God!) my God.
.
Gerard Manley Hopkins
.
.



.
.
Now Winter Nights Enlarge
.
Now winter nights enlarge
This number of their hours;
And clouds their storms discharge
Upon the airy towers.
Let now the chimneys blaze
And cups o'erflow with wine,
Let well-tuned words amaze
With harmony divine.
Now yellow waxen lights
Shall wait on honey love
While youthful revels, masques, and courtly sights
Sleep's leaden spells remove.
.
This time doth well dispense
With lovers' long discourse;
Much speech hath some defense,
Though beauty no remorse.
All do not all things well:
Some measures comely tread,
Some knotted riddles tell,
Some poems smoothly read.
The summer hath his joys,
And winter his delights;
Though love and all his pleasures are but toys
They shorten tedious nights.
.
.
Thomas Campion
.
.

ride the highway west baby



to the lake

Crystal Ship
(Morrison)

Before you slip into unconsciousness
I’d like to have another kiss
Another flashing chance at bliss
Another kiss, another kiss

The days are bright and filled with pain
Enclose me in your gentle rain
The time you ran was too insane
We’ll meet again, we’ll meet again

Oh tell me where your freedom lies
The streets are fields that never die
Deliver me from reasons why
You’d rather cry, I’d rather fly

The crystal ship is being filled
A thousand girls, a thousand thrills
A million ways to spend your time
When we get back, I’ll drop a line

http://www.fordham.edu/halsall/sbook1old.html

http://www.ucalgary.ca/UofC/eduweb/engl401/lessons/lesson1.htm

boa. o publish já funciona. azelhice técnica, imagine-se!

boa. o publish não funciona.

Come closer and see
See into the trees
Find the girl
If you can
Come closer and see
See into the dark
Just follow your eyes
Just follow your eyes
I hear her voice
Calling my name
The sound is deep
In the dark
I hear her voice
And start to run
Into the trees
Into the trees

Into the trees

Suddenly I stop
But I know it’s too late
I’m lost in a forest
All alone
The girl was never there
It’s always the same
I’m running towards nothing
Again and again and again and again

smith/gallup/tolhurst

Pensamentos no Tempo Frio

Partiste. O rio subiu até ao meu portão.
As cigarras calaram-se nos ramos cobertos de geada.
Agora regresso ao portão, mas o tempo mudou.
Como sempre os meus pensamentos são-te dirigidos.
Estás tão longe como a Estrela Polar e a Primavera,
Notícias tuas nunca se dirigem para sul.
Quantas vezes, nos meus sonhos, vejo terras distantes
- Encontraste outro amigo? Espero que não.

- Li Shang-Yin

2352.53 Walt Whitman
2352.54 .
2352.55 Sometimes with One I Love
2352.56 .
2352.57 Sometimes with one I love I fill myself with rage for fear I
2352.58 effuse unreturn'd love,
2352.59 But now I think there is no unreturn'd love, the pay is
2353.00 certain one way or another,
2353.01 (I loved a certain person ardently and my love was not return'd,
2353.02 Yet out of that I have written these songs.)
2353.03 .
2353.04 .

queda

às vezes, para não cairmos,
agarrávamos os tendões do incêndio
e por detrás da noite
dissolvíamos a espera.

ainda tenho guardada
a textura lenta do teu fôlego
no ventre dos dedos.

às vezes, para não cairmos,
tu colavas o teu nome ao meu
de modo a que a minha pele
fosse uma continuação da tua.

mas partiste
ou talvez nunca tenhas vindo

e encontro-te num sonho velho,
tão amarrotado como o silêncio do quarto
qual lâmina acesa no linho da memória.


Sara Costa

(Poema vencedor do Prémio Literário Correntes d'Escritas / Papelaria Locus)
(Encontrei a Sara, é inexplicável como. descreve-se neste sal)

o som dos

o som dos espelhos
alaga as ruas
que se arrastam pelo corpo
entre o suor ácido das formas.
chove
e vejo a língua do relógio
misturar-se com a lama.
a cidade arde
e a minha ressaca
é uma lareira
a pingar pelos dedos.

(Sara Costa)

O Guia da Condução por Cores

Socialista
Conduz movido por complexos de inferioridade. Pára em todas as rotundas, independentemente de vir alguém ou não. Se não vier, poderia sempre dar-se o caso de vir. Mais vale empatar todo o trânsito atrás de si do que faltar ao respeito ao próximo, mesmo que o próximo ainda venha a 500 metros.
Abranda 100 metros antes de arrumar em espinha, por precaução, não vá sem querer arranhar algum carro parado, ou passar a ferro um transeunte incauto que se atire para o meio da faixa naquele exacto instante.
Usa sempre os piscas, sobretudo dentro das referidas rotundas, na direcção em que se move, para indicar que vai mesmo ali.

Social-democrata
Façam o que ele diz e não o que ele faz. Preconiza normas de teor evolutivo, progressista e tecnocrata, cria oportunidades e identifica correctamente e de forma proactiva as peculiaridades do mercado, com particular ênfase nos pormenores do conforto, eficiência e cost-effectiveness.
É exímio na arte do detachment.
O que conta mesmo é o calibre da máquina onde se faz transportar, o resto pode ser visto mais tarde, tudo a seu tempo.
É assinalável primariamente nas autoestradas, é sempre aquele que tem a mania de abrir os máximos quando quer ir a mais 5 km/h que o da frente.

Comunista
Conduz o carro como se andasse de metro ou de comboio, ou seja, com uma mão agarrada às pegas laterais (onde se penduram os casaquinhos) e a outra às apalpadelas.
Postura facial obtusa, no sentido geométrico do termo: ângulo de visão com naso-elevação marcadamente prognata, mandíbula inferior a condizer com o trejeito, cervical um tudo-nada encurvada no sentido da velocidade do vento.
Arruma em terceira faixa porque quem paga parquímetros são os esbirros da cúria economicista.

Democrata-Cristão
A sua cabeça parece um radar militar, projecta a presença e o olhar em redor como que a anunciar que sabe o que está a fazer, pesem embora os anos e a gravata à bimbo.
Na tampa da mala, terá a) uma cruz de Cristo, b) a bandeira do Reino, c) um autocolante da Penélope ou d) o logotipo do Correio da Manhã.
Inexcedível em trajectória rectilínea e sem muitos apelos à criatividade, como semáforos, passadeiras, pessoas.

Bloquista
Compra sapatos de pele sintética feitos à base de cascas de tâmara, e com o dinheiro que poupa dedica-se a subcontratar grosas de recém-licenciados, aos quais paga mais 15, quinze! por cento do que a média, ou seja 690 euros brutos, para que transcrevam de variadíssimas formas a encefalorreia que o toma de assalto na demanda por um mundo melhor, livre de injustiças e seguro para todos, a começar pelos que ainda não sabem falar, estando na barriga da mãe, e a quem é preciso garantir que a ser cortados às postas, que o sejam com instrumentos de inox primeira qualidade.