EVEN NATURE GIVES YOU NO CHOICE

When you have seen a cloud
in the lap of a pond;
and the moon
between the waterlilies;
inevitably you are at the mercy
of your own soul.

What is this sound that wakens me at night?

It is biology, it calls out its rights.
At night you can hear it more
clearly, when the
sociologists are sleeping.

- Eeva Kilpi

seeker of truth

follow no path
all paths lead where

truth is here

- e.e. cummings

Class-mates

Bob Briggs went in for Government,
And helps to run the State;
Some day they say he'll represent
His party in debate:
But with punk politics his job,
I do not envy Bob.

Jim Jones went in for writing books,
Best sellers were his aim;
He's ten years younger than he looks,
And licks the heels of Fame:
Though shop-girls make a fuss of him
I do not envy Jim.

Joe Giles went in for grabbing gold,
And grovelled in the dirt;
He, too, looks prematurely old,
His gastric ulcers hurt:
Although he has a heap of dough.
I do not envy Joe.

I've neither fame nor power nor wealth,
I fish and hunt for food;
But I have heaps of rugged health,
And life seems mighty good.
So when my class-mates come to spend
A week-end in my shack,
With lake and wood at journey's end
--They envy Jack.

- Robert Service

if everything happens that can't be done
(and anything's righter
than books
could plan)
the stupidest teacher will almost guess
(with a run
skip
around we go yes)
there's nothing as something as one

one hasn't a why or because or although
(and buds know better
than books
don't grow)
one's anything old being everything new
(with a what
which
around we go who)
one's everyanything so

so world is a leaf is a tree is a bough
(and birds sing sweeter
than books
tell how)
so here is away and so your is a my
(with a down
up
around again fly)
forever was never till now

now i love you and you love me
(and books are shutter
than books
can be)
and deep in the high that does nothing but fall
(with a shout
each
around we go all)
there's somebody calling who's we

we're everything brighter than even the sun
(we're everything greater
than books
might mean)
we're everyanything more than believe
(with a spin
leap
alive we're alive)
we're wonderful one times one

- e.e. cummings

Reis glorios, verais lums e clartatz
Deus poderos, senher si a vos platz
Al meu companh siatz fizels aju da
Qu'eu non lo vi, pos la noitz fon venguda
Et ades sera l'alba!

Bel companho, si dormetz o veillatz?
Non dormatz plus, suau vos ressidatz
Qu'en orien vei l'estela creguda
Qu'amenal jorn, qu'eu l'ai ben coneguda
Et ades sera l'alba!

Bel dos companh, tan sui en ric sojorn
Qu'eu no volgra mais fos alba ni jorn
Car la gensor que anc nasques de maire
Tenc e abras, per qu'eu non prezi gaire
Lo fol gilos ni l'alba

- Giraut de Bornelh

(versões ouvidas: Els Trobadors / Mediaeval Babes / René Clemencic Consort)

My mouth blooms like a cut.
I've been wronged all year, tedious
nights, nothing but rough elbows in them
and delicate boxes of Kleenex calling crybaby
crybaby , you fool!

Before today my body was useless.
Now it's tearing at its square corners.
It's tearing old Mary's garments off, knot by knot
and see -- Now it's shot full of these electric bolts.
Zing! A resurrection!

Once it was a boat, quite wooden
and with no business, no salt water under it
and in need of some paint. It was no more
than a group of boards. But you hoisted her, rigged her.
She's been elected.

My nerves are turned on. I hear them like
musical instruments. Where there was silence
the drums, the strings are incurably playing. You did this.
Pure genius at work. Darling, the composer has stepped
into fire.   

- Anne Sexton

Não deixa de ser singularmente indicativo o facto de eu ter escolhido Morning, como a alvorada sempre foi o meu melhor trunfo, e tu Alba. E nem sabíamos um do outro.

A que espécie de avassaladora alvorada é que pode corresponder uma declaração de amor genuinamente perfeita (sem falhas, vícios nem erros), reduzida a escrito por uma mulher a todos os títulos completa - com índice, páginas e glossário?

English

[edit] Noun

Singular alba

Plural albas

alba (plural albas)

1. A type of lyrical poetry, traditionally Provençal, about lovers who must part at dawn.

---

[edit] Catalan

[edit] Etymology

from Latin albus (“‘white’”).

[edit] Noun

alba f. (plural albes)

Singular alba m.

Plural albes f.

1. dawn
2. the white tunic worn by priests

---

[edit] Chickasaw

[edit] Noun

alba

1. a weed
2. an uncultivated plant

---

[edit] Finnish

[edit] Noun

alba (stem alb-^*)

1. An alb; a long white gown worn in various Christian ceremonies by the priest or the parishioners, esp. in a confirmation by the people who are being confirmed.

---

[edit] Italian

[edit] Etymology

From Latin albus (“‘white’”).

[edit] Noun

alba f. (plural albe)

1. dawn, daybreak, break of day

[edit] Derived terms

• albeggiare

[edit] See also

• aurora
• levar del sole

---

[edit] Latin

[edit] Adjective

alba

1. nominative feminine singular of albus
2. nominative neuter plural of albus
3. accusative neuter plural of albus
4. vocative feminine singular of albus
5. vocative neuter plural of albus

albā

1. ablative feminine singular of albus

---

[edit] Old High German

[edit] Etymology

From a Pre-Indo-European *alb-, ‘mountain’

[edit] Noun

alba f.

1. alpine pasture
2. alp

---

[edit] Portuguese

[edit] Etymology

From Latin albus (“‘white’”).

[edit] Adjective

alba m. (plural albas)

1. white

[edit] Derived terms

• albino

---

[edit] Romanian

[edit] Adjective

alba

1. definite feminine singular nominative form of alb.
2. definite feminine singular accusative form of alb.

---

[edit] Spanish

[edit] Adjective

alba f. (plural albas)

1. feminine singular of albo

Porque é que, na maior parte das vezes, os homens na vida quotidiana dizem a verdade? Certamente, não porque um deus proibiu mentir. Mas sim, em primeiro lugar, porque é mais cómodo, pois a mentira exige invenção, dissimulação e memória. Por isso Swift diz: «Quem conta uma mentira raramente se apercebe do pesado fardo que toma sobre si; é que, para manter uma mentira, tem de inventar outras vinte». Em seguida, porque, em circunstâncias simples, é vantajoso dizer directamente: quero isto, fiz aquilo, e outras coisas parecidas; portanto, porque a via da obrigação e da autoridade é mais segura que a do ardil. Se uma criança, porém, tiver sido educada em circunstâncias domésticas complicadas, então maneja a mentira com a mesma naturalidade e diz, involuntariamente, sempre aquilo que corresponde ao seu interesse; um sentido da verdade, uma repugnância ante a mentira em si, são-lhe completamente estranhos e inacessíveis, e, portanto, ela mente com toda a inocência.

Friedrich Nietzsche, in 'Humano, Demasiado Humano'

A jogada da vida de qualquer um:

Nariz: óleos ligeiros, abertura para encostas com musgo e ramos secos.

Prova: assalto camuflado que ao fim de 8 segundos (sim, estou a escrever enquanto o provo) se desfaz em folhas de chá, tabaco e demais evergreens. Na garganta demarca terra batida com rochas metamórficas e maresia suave, escondida.

Final: não muito longo, intenso de madeira (nogueira) velha a evanescer com sensação de traineiras acostadas no molhe.

Prova realizada sem água. Amanhã, com três gotas, e depois com um dedo inteiro. Prevê-se um espírito que abra para tons verdes e submersos.

Depois da prova já temos jantar marcado :)

(Lord Foul's Bane, Chapter 11, The Unhomed)

Foamfollower's question caught him wandering. "Are you a storyteller, Thomas Covenant?"

Absently, he replied, "I was, once."

"And you gave it up? Ah, that is as sad a tale in three words as any you might have told me. But a life without a tale is like a sea without salt. How do you live?"

Covenant folded his arms across the gunwales and rested his chin on them. As the boat moved, Andelain opened constantly in front of him like a bud; but he ignored it, concentrated instead on the plaint of water past the prow. Unconsciously, he clenched his fist over his ring. "I live."

Concretizei um sonho. Estive em Glencoe, de pé, entre as montanhas e o lago, com a mulher que amo (por acréscimo a mais bela do mundo) e beijámo-nos. Dali viam-se as Três Irmãs, e mais abaixo caminhámos por entre as árvores até à Grey Mare's Tail. Em Kinlochleven, Ballachulish e de volta para Inverness. Um sonho de sempre, ao lado do meu sonho mais presente, que foi desde há vidas a outra margem do sonho. Amo-te, coisa.

Há-de haver sessão de fotos.

Vieram memórias que hão-de subsistir muito além desta inevitável senescência.

Segredo

Nem o Tempo tem tempo
para sondar as trevas

deste rio correndo
entre a pele e a pele

Nem o Tempo tem tempo
nem as trevas dão tréguas

Não descubro o segredo
que o teu corpo segrega

- David Mourão-Ferreira

Em estágio :)

Entretanto não tenho pejo em dizer que esta é mais uma obra-prima do careca:

In The Village Of My Ancestors

Someone embraces me
Someone looks at me with the eyes of a wolf
Someone takes off his hat
So I can see him better

Everyone asks me
Do you know how I'm related to you

Unknown old men and women
Appropriate the names
Of young men and women from my memory

I ask one of them
Tell me for God's sake
Is George the Wolf still living

That's me he answers
With a voice from the next world

I touch his cheek with my hand
And beg him with my eyes
To tell me if I'm living too

- Vasko Popa

Late Ripeness

Not soon, as late as the approach of my ninetieth year,
I felt a door opening in me and I entered

the clarity of early morning.

One after another my former lives were departing,
like ships, together with their sorrow.

And the countries, cities, gardens, the bays of seas
assigned to my brush came closer,

ready now to be described better than they were before.

I was not separated from people,
grief and pity joined us.
We forget - I kept saying - that we are all children of the King.

For where we come from there is no division

into Yes and No, into is, was, and will be.

We were miserable, we used no more than a hundredth part
of the gift we received for our long journey.

Moments from yesterday and from centuries ago -
a sword blow, the painting of eyelashes before a mirror

of polished metal, a lethal musket shot, a caravel
staving its hull against a reef - they dwell in us,
waiting for a fulfillment.

I knew, always, that I would be a worker in the vineyard,
as are all men and women living at the same time,

whether they are aware of it or not.

- Czeslaw Milosz

Quando for escritor quero ser grande.

((vou correr, o dia está quase a ser umas nuvens frias que não nos deixam fugir para a varanda e logo já podes encostar à box com um cocktail fulminante que desagua num filme que ainda não vimos)

)

(o parêntesis é aquela cena cummingsiana)

(aos momentos de calma, porque os de paixão ardente já sei traduzir ideogramaticamente, hei-de contratar um calígrafo chinês muito, muito velho e carcomido para inventar caracteres onde nos enrolamos sem se perceber muito bem onde acabo eu e começas tu)

There comes a time in every man's life
when he thinks: I have never had a single

original thought in my life
including this one & therefore I shall
eliminate all ideas from my poems
which shall consist of cats, rice, rain
baseball cards, fire escapes, hanging plants
red brick houses where I shall give up booze

and organized religion even if it means
despair is a logical possibility that can't
be disproved I shall concentrate on the five
senses and what they half perceive and half
create, the green street signs with white

letters on them the body next to mine
asleep while I think these thoughts
that I want to eliminate like nostalgia
0 was there ever a man who felt as I do
like a pronoun out of step with all the other
floating signifiers no things but in words

an orange T-shirt a lime green awning

- David Lehman

Twelfth Night

His first infidelity was a mistake, but not as big
As her false pregnancy. Later, the boy found out

He was born three months earlier than the date
On his birth certificate, which had turned into
A marriage license in his hands. Had he been trapped
In a net, like a moth mistaken for a butterfly?
And why did she--what was in it for her?
It took him all this time to figure it out.
The barroom boast, "I never had to pay for it,"
Is bogus if marriage is a religious institution
On the operating model of a nineteenth-century factory.
On the other hand, women's lot was no worse then
Than it is now. The division of labor made sense
In theories developed by college boys in jeans
Who grasped the logic their fathers had used
To seduce women and deceive themselves.
The pattern repeats itself, the same events
In a different order obeying the conventions of
A popular genre. Winter on a desolate beach. Spring
While there's snow still on the balcony and,
In the window, a plane flies over the warehouse.

The panic is gone. But the pain remains. And the apple,
The knife, and the honey are months away.

- David Lehman