Saturday, March 31, 2018
Manuel António Pina, Algumas Coisas
Algumas Coisas
A morte e a vida morrem
e sob a sua eternidade fica
só a memória do esquecimento de tudo;
também o silêncio de aquele que fala se calará.
Quem fala de estas
coisas e de falar de elas
foge para o puro esquecimento
fora da cabeça e de si.
O que existe falta
sob a eternidade;
saber é esquecer, e
esta é a sabedoria e o esquecimento.
Manuel António Pina, in "Aquele que Quer Morrer"
e sob a sua eternidade fica
só a memória do esquecimento de tudo;
também o silêncio de aquele que fala se calará.
Quem fala de estas
coisas e de falar de elas
foge para o puro esquecimento
fora da cabeça e de si.
O que existe falta
sob a eternidade;
saber é esquecer, e
esta é a sabedoria e o esquecimento.
Manuel António Pina, in "Aquele que Quer Morrer"
in the sea: a poetic migraine
in the sea
no way to evade
waves, the pull and push,
the force and rhythms
wave runs after wave.
when they come too fast
how not to struggle,
how to breathe in
wild water, near to
drowning, lost,
no time for thoughts,
they drop dead
like moths from a bulb
which burns all
but how sweet the
moments of stillness,
to float on life
how immense the
release of fight,
space expands
and what do i care
who wins,
me or the sea:
all this moves
through now and ends
which are gates
where all power
is nothing at all
the sea and me,
we are one, one
with sky and wind.
swimming naked
we find us here,
we find only now,
and memories are
whispers, they give no
way, no direction:
we must let go, all.
all despair, all worries,
tears, joy and pain,
knot and traps
they come inside
like waves
and in this sea
there is no choice
but to swim
or to drown, to sink,
a soul, a spirit,
without mind,
still in incarnation,
without hope,
keeping trust
in life and in death
and in the sea
until the last breath
Friday, March 30, 2018
Gaston Bachelard, poetry is...
"Poetry is one of the destinies of speech.... One would say that the poetic image, in its newness, opens a future to language."
Gaston Bachelard
Gaston Bachelard
Corona, Paul Celan
Aus der Hand frißt der Herbst mir sein Blatt: wir sind Freunde.
Wir schälen die Zeit aus den Nüssen und lehren sie gehn:
die Zeit kehrt zurück in die Schale.
Im Spiegel ist Sonntag,
im Traum wird geschlafen,
der Mund redet wahr.
im Traum wird geschlafen,
der Mund redet wahr.
Mein Aug steigt hinab zum Geschlecht der Geliebten:
wir sehen uns an,
wir sagen uns Dunkles,
wir lieben einander wie Mohn und Gedächtnis,
wir schlafen wie Wein in den Muscheln,
wie das Meer im Blutstrahl des Mondes.
wir sehen uns an,
wir sagen uns Dunkles,
wir lieben einander wie Mohn und Gedächtnis,
wir schlafen wie Wein in den Muscheln,
wie das Meer im Blutstrahl des Mondes.
Wir stehen umschlungen im Fenster, sie sehen uns zu von der
Straße:
es ist Zeit, daß man weiß!
Es ist Zeit, daß der Stein sich zu blühen bequemt,
daß der Unrast ein Herz schlägt.
Es ist Zeit, daß es Zeit wird.
Straße:
es ist Zeit, daß man weiß!
Es ist Zeit, daß der Stein sich zu blühen bequemt,
daß der Unrast ein Herz schlägt.
Es ist Zeit, daß es Zeit wird.
Es ist Zeit.
Paul Celan, Talglicht, aus: 'Mohn und Gedächtnis'
TALGLICHT
Die Mönche mit haarigen Fingern schlugen das Buch auf: September.
Jason wirft nun mit Schnee nach der aufgegangenen Saat.
Ein Halsband aus Händen gab dir der Wald, so schreitest du tot übers Seil.
Ein dunkleres Blau wird zuteil deinem Haar, und ich rede von Liebe.
Muscheln red ich und leichtes Gewölk, und ein Boot knospt im Regen.
Ein kleiner Hengst jagt über die blätternden Finger –
Schwarz springt das Tor auf, ich singe:
Wie lebten wir hier?
Die Mönche mit haarigen Fingern schlugen das Buch auf: September.
Jason wirft nun mit Schnee nach der aufgegangenen Saat.
Ein Halsband aus Händen gab dir der Wald, so schreitest du tot übers Seil.
Ein dunkleres Blau wird zuteil deinem Haar, und ich rede von Liebe.
Muscheln red ich und leichtes Gewölk, und ein Boot knospt im Regen.
Ein kleiner Hengst jagt über die blätternden Finger –
Schwarz springt das Tor auf, ich singe:
Wie lebten wir hier?
Die Hand voller Stunden, so kamst du zu mir – ich sprach:
Dein Haar ist nicht braun.
So hobst du es leicht auf die Waage des Leids, da war es schwerer als ich…
Dein Haar ist nicht braun.
So hobst du es leicht auf die Waage des Leids, da war es schwerer als ich…
Sie kommen auf Schiffen zu dir und laden es auf, sie bieten es feil auf den Märkten der Lust –
Du lächelst zu mir aus der Tiefe, ich weine zu dir aus der Schale, die leicht bleibt.
Ich weine: Dein Haar ist nicht braun, sie bieten das Wasser der See, und du gibst ihnen Locken…
Du flüsterst: Sie füllen die Welt schon mit mir, und ich bleib dir ein Hohlweg im Herzen!
Du sagst: Leg das Blattwerk der Jahre zu dir – es ist Zeit, daß du kommst und mich küssest!
Du lächelst zu mir aus der Tiefe, ich weine zu dir aus der Schale, die leicht bleibt.
Ich weine: Dein Haar ist nicht braun, sie bieten das Wasser der See, und du gibst ihnen Locken…
Du flüsterst: Sie füllen die Welt schon mit mir, und ich bleib dir ein Hohlweg im Herzen!
Du sagst: Leg das Blattwerk der Jahre zu dir – es ist Zeit, daß du kommst und mich küssest!
Das Blattwerk der Jahre ist braun, dein Haar ist es nicht.
I explain some things, Pablo Neruda
You will ask: And where are the lilacs?
And the metaphysics laced with poppies?
And the rain that often beat
his words filling them with holes and birds?
I'll tell you everything that's happening with me.
And the metaphysics laced with poppies?
And the rain that often beat
his words filling them with holes and birds?
I'll tell you everything that's happening with me.
I lived in a neighborhood
of Madrid, with church bells,
with clocks, with trees.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
of Madrid, with church bells,
with clocks, with trees.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
My house was called
the house of flowers, because everywhere
geraniums were exploding: it was
a beautiful house
with dogs and little kids.
the house of flowers, because everywhere
geraniums were exploding: it was
a beautiful house
with dogs and little kids.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Federico, you remember,
from under the earth,
do you remember my house with balconies on which
the light of June drowned flowers in your mouth?
Hermano, hermano!
And one morning everything was burning
from under the earth,
do you remember my house with balconies on which
the light of June drowned flowers in your mouth?
Hermano, hermano!
And one morning everything was burning
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
and ever since then fire,
gunpowder ever since,
and ever since then blood
Bandits with airplanes and with Moors,
bandits with finger-rings and duchesses,
bandits with black friars making blessings,
… kept coming from the sky to kill children,
and through the streets the blood of the children
ran simply, like children's blood.
gunpowder ever since,
and ever since then blood
Bandits with airplanes and with Moors,
bandits with finger-rings and duchesses,
bandits with black friars making blessings,
… kept coming from the sky to kill children,
and through the streets the blood of the children
ran simply, like children's blood.
You will ask why his poetry
doesn't speak to us of dreams, of the leaves,
of the great volcanoes of his native land?
doesn't speak to us of dreams, of the leaves,
of the great volcanoes of his native land?
Come and see the blood in the streets,
come and see
the blood in the streets,
come and see the blood
in the streets!
come and see
the blood in the streets,
come and see the blood
in the streets!
Von meinem iPhone gesendet
liberdade
isso é liberdade:
sentir o que seu
coração deseja,
independente da
opinião dos outros
Paulo Coelho
o amor jamais morre.., Paulo Coelho
o amor jamais morre de morte natural geralmente morre de sede porque nos esquemecos da fonte.
Paulo Coelho
towards easter
slowly sun-glassed vandals nearing.
at five the bells chime,
they toll for you and me.
bloody friday is ahead.
the lambs, they do not know.
the sea does not care,
waves are like half-gods,
for them all belongs
to their orchestra,
they drown the light,
they sacrifice the night.
silence spreads only inside,
not always with a smile.
beauty~
but as near as me.
this wild beauty of
untamed animals,
the sea, i absorb but
will not jump, not
into the boiling waters,
my skin scraped, my
flesh torn open, my
bones cracked on
stones-
i stay still.
seeing beauty close,
so close to death.
beauty so close to
me and inside.
wildness to break
structure and form
for reshaping, all cosmic
rhythm, essence of
elements and me:
only love can tame us,
free us to live.
beauty remains wild,
like fire and water
it will open prisons,
destroy what is in the way:
love will open gardens
for beauty to run free.
Tuesday, March 27, 2018
Sunday, March 25, 2018
The End, Mark Strand
THE END
Not every man knows what he shall sing at the end,
Watching the pier as the ship sails away, or what it will seem like
When he's held by the sea's roar, motionless, there at the end,
Or what he shall hope for once it is clear that he'll never go back.
Watching the pier as the ship sails away, or what it will seem like
When he's held by the sea's roar, motionless, there at the end,
Or what he shall hope for once it is clear that he'll never go back.
When the time has passed to prune the rose or caress the cat,
When the sunset torching the lawn and the full moon icing it down
No longer appear, not every man knows what he'll discover instead.
When the weight of the past leans against nothing, and the sky
When the sunset torching the lawn and the full moon icing it down
No longer appear, not every man knows what he'll discover instead.
When the weight of the past leans against nothing, and the sky
Is no more than remembered light, and the stories of cirrus
And cumulus come to a close, and all the birds are suspended in flight,
Not every man knows what is waiting for him, or what he shall sing
When the ship he is on slips into darkness, there at the end.
And cumulus come to a close, and all the birds are suspended in flight,
Not every man knows what is waiting for him, or what he shall sing
When the ship he is on slips into darkness, there at the end.
Von meinem iPhone gesendet
Song for Spring Equinox, Diane di Prima
It is the first day of spring, the children are singing
(they are supposed to be sleeping) the clock is ticking
the cats are waiting for supper, one of them pregnant
kittens to herald the spring, nothing is blooming
nothing seems to bloom much around farms, just hayfields and corn
farms are too pragmatic, I look at ads
for hydrangea bushes, which I hate they remind me of brooklyn
for chinese wisteria vines, which I can't picture
but they sound exotic and mysterious
a kind of blue purple, I decide I'll get some
will I be disappointed, will they be yellow?
will I hate the Shetland pony we are buying
will we run out of wholewheat flour this week
before a new supply drives up from the city?
oh, it is very like being a pioneer,
but then everything is in this country, and in the country
especially. it was like being a pioneer on 5th street, too
and houston street, and amsterdam avenue
and in brooklyn, under the streetlights growing up
rollerskating at dusk with stickball games in the street
was the most pioneery of all,
it is slightly boring,
it tastes a lot of the times crossword puzzle
and ordering things thru the mail, which never come
or turn out wrong, or come the wrong color (wisteria)
I can't blame Alan for planning to go to India
to free his kundalini, so that his ears peel
or something dreadful happens to his physique
we are built for the exotic, we americans, this landscape leaves us
as open as a piece of chocolate cream pie
(they are supposed to be sleeping) the clock is ticking
the cats are waiting for supper, one of them pregnant
kittens to herald the spring, nothing is blooming
nothing seems to bloom much around farms, just hayfields and corn
farms are too pragmatic, I look at ads
for hydrangea bushes, which I hate they remind me of brooklyn
for chinese wisteria vines, which I can't picture
but they sound exotic and mysterious
a kind of blue purple, I decide I'll get some
will I be disappointed, will they be yellow?
will I hate the Shetland pony we are buying
will we run out of wholewheat flour this week
before a new supply drives up from the city?
oh, it is very like being a pioneer,
but then everything is in this country, and in the country
especially. it was like being a pioneer on 5th street, too
and houston street, and amsterdam avenue
and in brooklyn, under the streetlights growing up
rollerskating at dusk with stickball games in the street
was the most pioneery of all,
it is slightly boring,
it tastes a lot of the times crossword puzzle
and ordering things thru the mail, which never come
or turn out wrong, or come the wrong color (wisteria)
I can't blame Alan for planning to go to India
to free his kundalini, so that his ears peel
or something dreadful happens to his physique
we are built for the exotic, we americans, this landscape leaves us
as open as a piece of chocolate cream pie
Friday, March 23, 2018
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