There are several great Brazilian poets, my favorite being Manuel Bandeira. However, all the translations I found in internet are not good. I am posting one of is many wonderful verses in Portugues (at the end). And I would love to share one of my favorite poems – this one from the Greek K. Kavafis.
As you set out for Ithaca
hope your road is a long one,
full of adventure, full of discovery.
Laistrygonians, Cyclops,
angry Poseidon – don’t be afraid of them:
you’ ll never find things like that on your way
as long as you keep your thoughts raised high,
as long as a rare excitement
stirs your spirit and your body.
Laistrygonians, Cyclops,
wild Poseidon – you won’t encounter them
unless you bring them along inside your soul,
unless your soul sets them up in front of you.
Hope your road is a long one.
May there be many summer mornings when,
with what pleasure, what joy,
you enter harbours you’re seeing for the first time;
may you stop at Phoenician trading stations
to buy fine things,
mother of pearl and coral, amber and ebony,
sensual perfume of every kind -
as many sensual perfumes as you can;
and may you visit many Egyptian cities
to learn and go on learning from their scholars.
Keep Ithaca always in your mind.
Arriving there is what you’re destined for.
But don’t hurry the journey at all.
Better if it lasts for years,
so you’re old by the time you reach the island,
wealthy with all you’ve gained on the way,
not expecting Ithaca to make you rich.
Ithaca gave you the marvelous journey.
Without her you wouldn’t have set out.
She has nothing left to give you now.
And if you find her poor, Ithaca won’t have fooled you.
Wise as you will have become, so full of experience,
and this is the meaning of Ithaca.
Author : Konstantinos Petrou Kavafis
VOU-ME EMBORA PRA PASSARGADA
Vou-me embora pra Pasárgada
Lá sou amigo do rei
Lá tenho a mulher que eu quero
Na cama que escolherei
Vou-me embora pra Pasárgada
Vou-me embora pra Pasárgada
Aqui eu não sou feliz
Lá a existência é uma aventura
De tal modo inconseqüente
Que Joana a Louca de Espanha
Rainha e falsa demente
Vem a ser contraparente
Da nora que nunca tive
E como farei ginástica
Andarei de bicicleta
Montarei em burro brabo
Subirei no pau-de-sebo
Tomarei banhos de mar!
E quando estiver cansado
Deito na beira do rio
Mando chamar a mãe-d’água
Pra me contar as histórias
Que no tempo de eu menino
Rosa vinha me contar
Vou-me embora pra Pasárgada
Em Pasárgada tem tudo
É outra civilização
Tem um processo seguro
De impedir a concepção
Tem telefone automático
Tem alcalóide à vontade
Tem prostitutas bonitas
Para a gente namorar
E quando eu estiver mais triste
Mas triste de não ter jeito
Quando de noite me der
Vontade de me matar
Lá sou amigo do rei
Terei a mulher que eu quero
Na cama que escolherei
Vou-me embora pra Pasárgada.
Author : Manuel Bandeira
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Só agora li o poema que escolheste, de Kaváfis. Também é um dos meus preferidos (por cause dele o nome do meu blog). Eu sinto, quando o leio, toda a imensa vontade de voltar para “casa”.
Outro que fala brilhantemente sobre Ítaca é Manuel Alegre:
Não vale a pena suportar tanto castigo.
Procuras Ítaca. Mas só há esse procurar.
Onde quer que te encontres está contigo
dentro de ti em casa na distância
onde quer que procures há outro mar
Ítaca é tua própria errância.
É isso! Muito obrigada, Sr. Paulo Coelho.
Meu poema favorito!!!
“BONS AMIGOS
Abençoados os que possuem amigos, os que os têm sem pedir.
Porque amigo não se pede, não se compra, nem se vende.
Amigo a gente sente!
Benditos os que sofrem por amigos, os que falam com o olhar.
Porque amigo não se cala, não questiona, nem se rende.
Amigo a gente entende!
Benditos os que guardam amigos, os que entregam o ombro pra chorar.
Porque amigo sofre e chora.
Amigo não tem hora pra consolar!
Benditos sejam os amigos que acreditam na tua verdade ou te apontam a realidade.
Porque amigo é a direção.
Amigo é a base quando falta o chão!
Benditos sejam todos os amigos de raízes, verdadeiros.
Porque amigos são herdeiros da real sagacidade.
Ter amigos é a melhor cumplicidade!
Há pessoas que choram por saber que as rosas têm espinho,
Há outras que sorriem por saber que os espinhos têm rosas!”
Por : Machado de Assis
I have always loved this poem by Neruda — because once I had loved a boy … and “we, of that time, are no longer the same”.
TONIGHT I CAN WRITE – Pablo Neruda
Write, for example, ‘The night is starry
and the stars are blue and shiver in the distance.’
The night wind revolves in the sky and sings.
Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.
Through nights like this one I held her in my arms.
I kissed her again and again under the endless sky.
She loved me, sometimes I loved her too.
How could one not have loved her great still eyes.
Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
To think that I do not have her. To feel that I have lost her.
To hear the immense night, still more immense without her.
And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture.
What does it matter that my love could not keep her.
The night is starry and she is not with me.
This is all. In the distance someone is singing. In the distance.
My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.
My sight tries to find her as though to bring her closer.
My heart looks for her, and she is not with me.
The same night whitening the same trees.
We, of that time, are no longer the same.
I no longer love her, that’s certain, but how I loved her.
My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing.
Another’s. She will be another’s. As she was before my kisses.
Her voice, her bright body. Her infinite eyes.
I no longer love her, that’s certain, but maybe I love her.
Love is so short, forgetting is so long.
Because through nights like this one I held her in my arms
my soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.
Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer
and these the last verses that I write for her.
I say goodbye to you and wish you luck
i know, a rose wont stay the same if you pluck
All i want, is you to grow with your dream
i know a mighty river was once a stream
I dont want to let go of you
but, i know the tighter i hold, it’l slip from a lot to few
It pains me to see you walk away
But i know, even a blossom has a duty to perform in its short stay
It would not be easy to forget you
because i know, even spring takes time for the leaves anew
The thoughts would make my days short and nights long
I know the stars never twinkle, its the air which is moist and warm
I would search for your trace everywhere
because i know, sometimes even the bright morning sun rays, cant hide the moon’s glare
The reality is stark but the dreams refuse to disembark
i know the silence of the night is not because its dark
Everything has drowned but hope still floats
i know the nightangle doesnt sing but we hear sweet musical notes
I can try to capture you and may be i’ll succeed
but i know even the earth cracks, when the roots are held too deep
I can never be happy without you
but i know i’ll be more sad if i get you,just to lose you
My love is not weak and will not shackle a being
I know, seeing is not believeing but believing is seeing..!
that was incredibly beautiful!
By Jorge Luis Borges
Writings of light assault the darkness, more prodigious than meteors.
The tall unknowable city takes over the countryside.
Sure of my life and death, I observe the ambitious and would like to
understand them.
Their day is greedy as a lariat in the air.
Their night is a rest from the rage within steel, quick to attack.
They speak of humanity.
My humanity is in feeling we are all voices of that same poverty.
They speak of homeland.
My homeland is the rhythm of a guitar, a few portraits, an old sword,
the willow grove’s visible prayer as evening falls.
Time is living me.
More silent than my shadow, I pass through the loftily covetous multitude.
They are indispensable, singular, worthy of tomorrow.
My name is someone and anyone.
I walk slowly, like one who comes from so far away he doesn’t expect to arrive
Instants
by Jorge Luis Borges
——————————————————————————–
If I could live again my life,
In the next – I’ll try,
- to make more mistakes,
I won’t try to be so perfect,
I’ll be more relaxed,
I’ll be more full – than I am now,
In fact, I’ll take fewer things seriously,
I’ll be less hygenic,
I’ll take more risks,
I’ll take more trips,
I’ll watch more sunsets,
I’ll climb more mountains,
I’ll swim more rivers,
I’ll go to more places – I’ve never been,
I’ll eat more ice creams and less (lime) beans,
I’ll have more real problems – and less imaginary
ones,
I was one of those people who live
prudent and prolific lives -
each minute of his life,
Offcourse that I had moments of joy – but,
if I could go back I’ll try to have only good moments,
If you don’t know – thats what life is made of,
Don’t lose the now!
I was one of those who never goes anywhere
without a thermometer,
without a hot-water bottle,
and without an umberella and without a parachute,
If I could live again – I will travel light,
If I could live again – I’ll try to work bare feet
at the beginning of spring till
the end of autumn,
I’ll ride more carts,
I’ll watch more sunrises and play with more children,
If I have the life to live – but now I am 85,
– and I know that I am dying
The Art of Poetry
Jorge Luis Borges
To gaze at a river made of time and water
and remember Time is another river.
To know we stray like a river
and our faces vanish like water.
To feel that waking is another dream
that dreams of not dreaming and that the death
we fear in our bones is the death
that every night we call a dream.
To see in every day and year a symbol
of all the days of man and his years,
and convert the outrage of the years
into a music, a sound, and a symbol.
To see in death a dream, in the sunset
a golden sadness–such is poetry,
humble and immortal, poetry,
returning, like dawn and the sunset.
Sometimes at evening there’s a face
that sees us from the deeps of a mirror.
Art must be that sort of mirror,
disclosing to each of us his face.
They say Ulysses, wearied of wonders,
wept with love on seeing Ithaca,
humble and green. Art is that Ithaca,
a green eternity, not wonders.
Art is endless like a river flowing,
passing, yet remaining, a mirror to the same
inconstant Heraclitus, who is the same
and yet another, like the river flowing.
–translated by Anthony Kerrigan
Edgar Allan Poe
The Raven
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
`’Tis some visitor,’ I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door -
Only this, and nothing more.’
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; – vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow – sorrow for the lost Lenore -
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me – filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
`’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door -
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; -
This it is, and nothing more,’
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
`Sir,’ said I, `or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you’ – here I opened wide the door; -
Darkness there, and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, `Lenore!’
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, `Lenore!’
Merely this and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
`Surely,’ said I, `surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore -
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; -
‘Tis the wind and nothing more!’
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door -
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door -
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
`Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,’ I said, `art sure no craven.
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore -
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!’
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.’
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning – little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door -
Bird or beast above the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as `Nevermore.’
But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only,
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered – not a feather then he fluttered -
Till I scarcely more than muttered `Other friends have flown before -
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.’
Then the bird said, `Nevermore.’
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
`Doubtless,’ said I, `what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore -
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore
Of “Never-nevermore.”‘
But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore -
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking `Nevermore.’
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
`Wretch,’ I cried, `thy God hath lent thee – by these angels he has sent thee
Respite – respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!’
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.’
`Prophet!’ said I, `thing of evil! – prophet still, if bird or devil! -
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted -
On this home by horror haunted – tell me truly, I implore -
Is there – is there balm in Gilead? – tell me – tell me, I implore!’
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.’
`Prophet!’ said I, `thing of evil! – prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us – by that God we both adore -
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Lenore?’
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.’
`Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!’ I shrieked upstarting -
`Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! – quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!’
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.’
And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted – nevermore!
One of my favorites by one of my favorites…
Spell of the Yukon
By Robert Service
I wanted the gold, and I sought it,
I scrabbled and mucked like a slave.
Was it famine or scurvy — I fought it;
I hurled my youth into a grave.
I wanted the gold, and I got it —
Came out with a fortune last fall, —
Yet somehow life’s not what I thought it,
And somehow the gold isn’t all.
No! There’s the land. (Have you seen it?)
It’s the cussedest land that I know,
From the big, dizzy mountains that screen it
To the deep, deathlike valleys below.
Some say God was tired when He made it;
Some say it’s a fine land to shun;
Maybe; but there’s some as would trade it
For no land on earth — and I’m one.
You come to get rich (damned good reason);
You feel like an exile at first;
You hate it like hell for a season,
And then you are worse than the worst.
It grips you like some kinds of sinning;
It twists you from foe to a friend;
It seems it’s been since the beginning;
It seems it will be to the end.
I’ve stood in some mighty-mouthed hollow
That’s plumb-full of hush to the brim;
I’ve watched the big, husky sun wallow
In crimson and gold, and grow dim,
Till the moon set the pearly peaks gleaming,
And the stars tumbled out, neck and crop;
And I’ve thought that I surely was dreaming,
With the peace o’ the world piled on top.
The summer — no sweeter was ever;
The sunshiny woods all athrill;
The grayling aleap in the river,
The bighorn asleep on the hill.
The strong life that never knows harness;
The wilds where the caribou call;
The freshness, the freedom, the farness —
O God! how I’m stuck on it all.
The winter! the brightness that blinds you,
The white land locked tight as a drum,
The cold fear that follows and finds you,
The silence that bludgeons you dumb.
The snows that are older than history,
The woods where the weird shadows slant;
The stillness, the moonlight, the mystery,
I’ve bade ‘em good-by — but I can’t.
There’s a land where the mountains are nameless,
And the rivers all run God knows where;
There are lives that are erring and aimless,
And deaths that just hang by a hair;
There are hardships that nobody reckons;
There are valleys unpeopled and still;
There’s a land — oh, it beckons and beckons,
And I want to go back — and I will.
They’re making my money diminish;
I’m sick of the taste of champagne.
Thank God! when I’m skinned to a finish
I’ll pike to the Yukon again.
I’ll fight — and you bet it’s no sham-fight;
It’s hell! — but I’ve been there before;
And it’s better than this by a damsite —
So me for the Yukon once more.
There’s gold, and it’s haunting and haunting;
It’s luring me on as of old;
Yet it isn’t the gold that I’m wanting
So much as just finding the gold.
It’s the great, big, broad land ‘way up yonder,
It’s the forests where silence has lease;
It’s the beauty that thrills me with wonder,
It’s the stillness that fills me with peace.
Críticas à Humanidade
Caro mestre escritor, venho observado ao andar com passos de peregrino, como homem humilde que sou, observador dos acontecimentos periódicos no tempo a todo instante, o quão a nossa humanidade actual é desorganizada e muitas vezes feia, negativa e confusa. Em muitos aspectos, não em todos, salva guardada por alguns nobres de espírito e bem feitores da harmonia e correctos actos. É somente uma crítica referente ao Mundo e ao homem, que posso dividir em três exemplos, primeiramente negativos, sem nunca esquecer da sequência de pontos positivos que há por toda parte. A positividade aliás é nossa própria procriação, a oportunidade de existir para construir, fazer e realizar. A construção em sí não deve ser vista como a matéria bruta ou expansão de terreno horizontal ou vertical, como fronteiras e apartamentos, mas sim a formação do ser interno, da mente e do que os membros e as capacidades podem fabricar em benefício ao Mundo para a posteridade. Enfim, o que há de mal no mundo é a má comunicação. O simples bom de tudo, divino entendimento do todo.
CONTO
Certa vez em terras da península ibérica aconteceu um grande e simples desentendimento num diálogo de um francês com um hindu, nativo da América do Sul. A conversa entre ambos é baseada num rapaz do velho mundo, “civilizado”, em pose de comando e cheio de artimanhas exteriores, como a própria vestimenta e instrumentos que carregava – uma máquina de registar paisagens e conexões numa rede de mensagens instantâneas, estas que fazem conectar pessoas do globo terrestre no mesmo tempo, independente do local e da hora em cada lugar – e um simples homem andarilho de ordem sabedora das terras por onde passara.
Pois, o nativo hindu sul-americano olhou o céu no fim daquela tarde e início da noite e viu no horizonte ao longe, acima das árvores da floresta a lua cheia e disse:
- Look, the moon
- Demon?
- No… mira, la luna, the moon…
- Luna?
- Yes, look – Apontava avante o nativo mostrando aquela gigantesca lua branca no céu, mas mesmo assim aparentemente o francês não entendia e demonstrava estar perdido, confuso.
E continuou o hindu a apontar o dedo ao céu, fazendo ver o civilizado homem do velho mundo:
- Olha meu amigo, look brother, mira la luna, en sky, el globo de prata, luz en la noche, a lua, satélite. – Assim falou o simples homem numa grande frase diversifica de sinais, justamente aquilo que gostaria de prosseguir numa conversa.
Então, depois de toda esta insistência num tempo de conversação quase perdido, onde a essência era a contemplação da lua que despontava cheia no horizonte, e só mesmo depois de tanta descrição e formas tão fáceis de entender uma mensagem simples, visual e universal, é que o diálogo se completou, sobre a lua, todos os dias e noites existente sobre nossas cabeças.
Por fim disse o hindu a sí mesmo em voz alta ainda de olhar fixo na lua que movia pelo céu:
- Falei em três línguas ou mais por você, dama da noite, e vi que somente eu e a lua nos entendemos. Por amor estarei vivo, até quando apareceres sobre qualquer ser inferior à luz que o sol lhe proporciona.
Eis aí um enorme pretexto para se criticar a humanidade: A falta de atenção comunicativa entre raças, sobre línguas latinas ou faladas por muitos, sobre a dificuldade de levar adiante o entendimento harmonioso com o tempo e a continuidades de assuntos ramificados de factos mundanos, simples assim de permanecer ou rejeitar na espiral evolução mental.
“Quand pour la premiere fois dans un vivant, l’instinct s’est apercu au miroir de lui-meme, c’est le monde tout entier qui fait un pas.”
Pierre Teilhard de Chardin
“When for the first time in a life, the intuition catches a glimpse of itself in the mirror, it is the whole world that moves one step forward.”
Pierre Teilhard de Chardin
that poem is excellent :) Excellent, excellent, excellent!
Walls by C.P. Cavafis
With no consideration, no pity, no shame,
they have built walls around me, thick and high.
And now I sit here feeling hopeless.
I can’t think of anything else: this fate gnaws my mind—
because I had so much to do outside.
When they were building the walls, how could I not have noticed!
But I never heard the builders, not a sound.
Imperceptibly they have closed me off from the outside world.
AMERICA by Allen Ginsberg
Ginsberg reciting his poem:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ewn14BTNnGg
America I’ve given you all and now I’m nothing.
America two dollars and twenty-seven cents January 17, 1956.
I can’t stand my own mind.
America when will we end the human war?
Go fuck yourself with your atom bomb
I don’t feel good don’t bother me.
I won’t write my poem till I’m in my right mind.
America when will you be angelic?
When will you take off your clothes?
When will you look at yourself through the grave?
When will you be worthy of your million Trotskyites?
America why are your libraries full of tears?
America when will you send your eggs to India?
I’m sick of your insane demands.
When can I go into the supermarket and buy what I need with my good looks?
America after all it is you and I who are perfect not the next world.
Your machinery is too much for me.
You made me want to be a saint.
There must be some other way to settle this argument.
Burroughs is in Tangiers I don’t think he’ll come back it’s sinister.
Are you being sinister or is this some form of practical joke?
I’m trying to come to the point.
I refuse to give up my obsession.
America stop pushing I know what I’m doing.
America the plum blossoms are falling.
I haven’t read the newspapers for months, everyday somebody goes on trial for murder.
America I feel sentimental about the Wobblies.
America I used to be a communist when I was a kid and I’m not sorry.
I smoke marijuana every chance I get.
I sit in my house for days on end and stare at the roses in the closet.
When I go to Chinatown I get drunk and never get laid.
My mind is made up there’s going to be trouble.
You should have seen me reading Marx.
My psychoanalyst thinks I’m perfectly right.
I won’t say the Lord’s Prayer.
I have mystical visions and cosmic vibrations.
America I still haven’t told you what you did to Uncle Max after he came over from Russia.
I’m addressing you.
Are you going to let our emotional life be run by Time Magazine?
I’m obsessed by Time Magazine.
I read it every week.
Its cover stares at me every time I slink past the corner candystore.
I read it in the basement of the Berkeley Public Library.
It’s always telling me about responsibility. Businessmen are serious. Movie producers are serious. Everybody’s serious but me.
It occurs to me that I am America.
I am talking to myself again.
Asia is rising against me.
I haven’t got a chinaman’s chance.
I’d better consider my national resources.
My national resources consist of two joints of marijuana millions of genitals an unpublishable private literature that goes 1400 miles and hour and twentyfivethousand mental institutions.
I say nothing about my prisons nor the millions of underpriviliged who live in my flowerpots under the light of five hundred suns.
I have abolished the whorehouses of France, Tangiers is the next to go.
My ambition is to be President despite the fact that I’m a Catholic.
America how can I write a holy litany in your silly mood?
I will continue like Henry Ford my strophes are as individual as his
automobiles more so they’re all different sexes
America I will sell you strophes $2500 apiece $500 down on your old strophe
America free Tom Mooney
America save the Spanish Loyalists
America Sacco & Vanzetti must not die
America I am the Scottsboro boys.
America when I was seven momma took me to Communist Cell meetings they sold us garbanzos a handful per ticket a ticket costs a nickel and the speeches were free everybody was angelic and sentimental about the workers it was all so sincere you have no idea what a good thing the party was in 1835 Scott Nearing was a grand old man a real mensch Mother Bloor made me cry I once saw Israel Amter plain. Everybody must have been a spy.
America you don’re really want to go to war.
America it’s them bad Russians.
Them Russians them Russians and them Chinamen. And them Russians.
The Russia wants to eat us alive. The Russia’s power mad. She wants to take our cars from out our garages.
Her wants to grab Chicago. Her needs a Red Reader’s Digest. her wants our auto plants in Siberia. Him big bureaucracy running our fillingstations.
That no good. Ugh. Him makes Indians learn read. Him need big black niggers.
Hah. Her make us all work sixteen hours a day. Help.
America this is quite serious.
America this is the impression I get from looking in the television set.
America is this correct?
I’d better get right down to the job.
It’s true I don’t want to join the Army or turn lathes in precision parts factories, I’m nearsighted and psychopathic anyway.
America I’m putting my queer shoulder to the wheel.
Thanks Savita. I like it a lot.
http://listen.grooveshark.com/#/song/Marche_De_Sacco_Et_Vanzetti/22725606
Love the poem Savita! Thanks for sharing and for Sacco and Venezettis story. I just read about them that they were charged for murder, so is this false? a false accusation??
love
C.
David’s Favorite Poem
The Invitation by Oriah
It doesn’t interest me what you do for a living.
I want to know what you ache for
and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart’s longing.
It doesn’t interest me how old you are.
I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool
for love
for your dream
for the adventure of being alive.
It doesn’t interest me what planets are squaring your moon…
I want to know if you have touched the centre of your own sorrow
if you have been opened by life’s betrayals
or have become shrivelled and closed
from fear of further pain.
I want to know if you can sit with pain
mine or your own
without moving to hide it
or fade it
or fix it.
I want to know if you can be with joy
mine or your own
if you can dance with wildness
and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes
without cautioning us
to be careful
to be realistic
to remember the limitations of being human.
It doesn’t interest me if the story you are telling me
is true.
I want to know if you can
disappoint another
to be true to yourself.
If you can bear the accusation of betrayal
and not betray your own soul.
If you can be faithless
and therefore trustworthy.
I want to know if you can see Beauty
even when it is not pretty
every day.
And if you can source your own life
from its presence.
I want to know if you can live with failure
yours and mine
and still stand at the edge of the lake
and shout to the silver of the full moon,
“Yes.”
It doesn’t interest me
to know where you live or how much money you have.
I want to know if you can get up
after the night of grief and despair
weary and bruised to the bone
and do what needs to be done
to feed the children.
It doesn’t interest me who you know
or how you came to be here.
I want to know if you will stand
in the centre of the fire
with me
and not shrink back.
It doesn’t interest me where or what or with whom
you have studied.
I want to know what sustains you
from the inside
when all else falls away.
I want to know if you can be alone
with yourself
and if you truly like the company you keep
in the empty moments.
I love this poem. Read it for the first time a few months ago. Thanks for posting it.
Beautiful and very moving. I love the rhythm in particular. Nice selection.
lovely poem….
Let’s It Flow
by MCamelia
You stepped into my life
To be my inspirations since beginning
You stepped into my life, again
After our long journey
When I asked you; “Why?”
You haven’t the answers
Is that so complicated?
Is that so unexplainable?
You just said; “Let’s it flow”
Is that so easy for me?
Nope. It’s really hard for me
I couldn’t lets it just flow
We do not know,
Where’s it flow to?
We both have not the answers yet
Lets it flow, as you said so
Long time ago,
You stepped in
Long time ago
You stepped back
You never gave me any clue before
So did I
But, at last
You not gave me just a clue
You came in, you stepped in
You talked a lot with your smile
Finally we agreed of one thing
“Something’s happened between us”
You felt that way
So do I
Even I realized, you’re not mine since beginning
As I realized, you’re somebody ‘sweetheart’
I realized, both of us are an ‘outsider’
But,
I realized, you’re my inspiration since beginning
As you did before,
You stepped back again,
Now, for better reasons
I hope so
You stepped in
But you stepped back again
Still,
You become my inspirations @ this season
That’s lovely! Thanks mcamelia.
:)
Dear Paulo,
I am sitting in front of my computer with a big lump in my throat.
I find this current of energy that is flowing through this blog very very moving.
It is history in the making – a dream come true -
Such a beautiful gift, all nations united , coming together and sharing the best with poetry.
Thank you so much, Paulo.
With love
Marie-Christine
Thanks Luminata Amon.
Enjoy your holidays.
:)
Love
Marie-Christine
Picture
Lonely lovers,
Bloody rain…
A cat who runs away.
A moon memmorie
Caught in a foolish game
Between two actors
And yesterday.
Tired lips wonder…
Why his soule casted
In to insanity…
Why his arms are tired,
Searching guilt
In every game.
SO..why..responses
Came, from the victims
Button “play”?
Rewind the lovers
At first part
When His thougt
Was caught just by
Her foulish heart.
Arrows of faith
Are shooting in
Their blind date.
One by one..
And “two” becomes none.
And ho`s to blame?
Guilty feat
Guilty eyes..
The actors says
Nighty night…
Please ignore last entry – spelling mistake!
We look before and after,
and pine for what is not.
Our sincerest laughter,
with some pain is fraught.
Our sweetest songs are those that tell,
of saddest thought…
“Le silence est l’equilibre absolu du corps , de l’esprit et de l’ame.
L’homme qui preserve l’unite de son etre reste a jamais calme et inebranlable devant les tempetes de l’existence – pas une feuille qui bouge sur l’arbre,pas une ride a la surface etincelante du lac -voila , aux yeux du sage illetre, l’attitude ideale et la meilleure conduite de vie.
Si vous lui demandez :”Qu’est ce que le silence?”. il repondra :”C’est le grand mystere.” “Le silence sacre est sa voix!” Si vous demandez “Quels sont les fruits du silence?” il vous repondra “C’est la maitrise de soi, le courage vrai ou l’endurance, la patience,la dignite et le respect. Le silence est la pierre d’angle du caractere.”
Ohiyesa, ecrivain indien
`~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“la solitude est un miroir, le plus franc et le plus profond. Et le seul qui repond avant que la question lui soit posee.”
Gilles Vigneaud
This is one of my favourite poems, I’m glad to share it with you.
In the autumn I gathered all my sorrows and buried them in my garden.
And when April returned and spring came to wed
the earth, there grew in my garden beautiful flowers
unlike all other flowers.
And my neighbors came to behold them, and they all said to me: “When autumn comes again, at seeding time, will you not give us of the seeds of those flowers that we may have them in our gardens?”.
(sand and Foam – Gibran)
ITHACA is also my favorite poem. I read it the first time in 1977 in Athens when I lived in a community of artists.
Since then came to me all along the “road” which is a long one …
I like the english translation, as well as the portuguese one.
Well, as Paulo posted ir already I will post one poem which I wrote in 2008 when I was trying to write in portuguese …
Saudação
Nasci num pais frio e estranho …
mas cresci num lar com muito amor …
Nas ruas me chamaram de forasteiro …
jogaram pedras … gritaram palavrões
as palavras doiam mais que as pedras jogadas
mas a minha família me dava calor …
Resolvi viajar, feito nomade, feito errante
fui recebido nos países do Oriente
com fraternidade e muito calor …
que me lembrava do ambiente familiar perdido …
Resolvi me aventurar – na busca da flor azul
buscava amor, buscava paixão …
buscava justiça, buscava a revolução
Resolvi pegar a estrada novamente
ora para o sul, ora para o leste
e enquanto estava andando,
meu caminho passava alturas e dersertos
e quando chegava a encruzilhadas
tomei o caminho indicado polo eremita …
Pois saiba e não se esqueça:
Se um dia eu for partir novamente
eis que tu saberás aonde me achar:
lá, no mais doce dos teus sonhos …
Talvez já tenho partido pra outra dimensão
mas vou saudá-la de portos seguros
parecendo magia, parecendo encanto.
esta saudação de costas distantes …
(written in Fortaleza, 28.07.2008)
Olá Christian, adorei o poema que você escreveu em Fortaleza!!! Muito bom, mesmo!!!
“The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” T.S. Eliot
S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero,
Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.
LET us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question …
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.
And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—
[They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”]
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
[They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”]
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
For I have known them all already, known them all:—
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?
And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?
And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
It is perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?…
I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep … tired … or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.
And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: “That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all.”
And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
“That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.”
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.
I grow old … I grow old …
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me.
I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.
The Good-Morrow by John Donne
I WONDER by my troth, what thou and I
Did, till we loved ? were we not wean’d till then ?
But suck’d on country pleasures, childishly ?
Or snorted we in the Seven Sleepers’ den ?
‘Twas so ; but this, all pleasures fancies be ;
If ever any beauty I did see,
Which I desired, and got, ’twas but a dream of thee.
And now good-morrow to our waking souls,
Which watch not one another out of fear ;
For love all love of other sights controls,
And makes one little room an everywhere.
Let sea-discoverers to new worlds have gone ;
Let maps to other, worlds on worlds have shown ;
Let us possess one world ; each hath one, and is one.
My face in thine eye, thine in mine appears,
And true plain hearts do in the faces rest ;
Where can we find two better hemispheres
Without sharp north, without declining west ?
Whatever dies, was not mix’d equally ;
If our two loves be one, or thou and I
Love so alike that none can slacken, none can die.
Hola soy italiana pero me gusta mucho l poesia brasileña…dejo aqui 2 de mis favoritas y una de un poeta latin que me gusta mucho…
A pessoa errada (Luis Fernando Verrissimo)
Pensando bem, em tudo o que a gente vê, e vivencia, e ouve e pensa, não existe uma pessoa certa pra gente. Existe uma pessoa, que se você for parar pra pensar, é na verdade, a pessoa errada. Porque a pessoa certa faz tudo certinho: chega na hora certa, fala as coisas certas, faz as coisas certas.Mas nem sempre precisamos das coisas certas. Aí é a hora de procurar a pessoa errada. A pessoa errada te faz perder a cabeça, fazer loucuras, perder a hora, morrer de amor. A pessoa errada vai ficar um dia sem te procurar, que é para na hora que vocês se encontrarem a entrega seja muito mais verdadeira.A pessoa errada, é na verdade, aquilo que a gente chama de pessoa certa. Essa pessoa vai te fazer chorar, mas uma hora depois vai estar enxugando suas lagrimas, essa pessoa vai tirar seu sono, mas vai te dar em troca uma inesquecível noite de amor. Essa pessoa pode não estar 100% do tempo ao seu lado, mas vai estar toda a vida esperando você.A pessoa errada tem que aparecer para todo mundo, porque a vida não é certa, nada aqui é certo. O certo mesmo é que temos que viver cada momento, cada segundo amando, sorrindo, chorando, pensando, agindo, querendo e conseguindo. Só assim, é possível chegar aquele momento do dia em que a gente diz: “Graças a Deus, deu tudo certo!”, quando na verdade, tudo o que Ele quer, é que a gente encontre a pessoa errada, Para que as coisas comecem a realmente funcionar direito prá gente.
Nossa missão: Compreender o universo de cada ser humano, respeitar as diferenças, brindar as descobertas, buscar a evolução.
Para Viver Um Grande Amor (Vinicius de Moraes)
Para viver um grande amor, preciso é muita concentração e muito siso, muita seriedade e pouco riso — para viver um grande amor.
Para viver um grande amor, mister é ser um homem de uma só mulher; pois ser de muitas, poxa! é de colher… — não tem nenhum valor.
Para viver um grande amor, primeiro é preciso sagrar-se cavalheiro e ser de sua dama por inteiro — seja lá como for. Há que fazer do corpo uma morada onde clausure-se a mulher amada e postar-se de fora com uma espada — para viver um grande amor.
Para viver um grande amor, vos digo, é preciso atenção como o “velho amigo”, que porque é só vos quer sempre consigo para iludir o grande amor. É preciso muitíssimo cuidado com quem quer que não esteja apaixonado, pois quem não está, está sempre preparado pra chatear o grande amor.
Para viver um amor, na realidade, há que compenetrar-se da verdade de que não existe amor sem fidelidade — para viver um grande amor. Pois quem trai seu amor por vanidade é um desconhecedor da liberdade, dessa imensa, indizível liberdade que traz um só amor.
Para viver um grande amor, il faut além de fiel, ser bem conhecedor de arte culinária e de judô — para viver um grande amor.
Para viver um grande amor perfeito, não basta ser apenas bom sujeito; é preciso também ter muito peito — peito de remador. É preciso olhar sempre a bem-amada como a sua primeira namorada e sua viúva também, amortalhada no seu finado amor.
É muito necessário ter em vista um crédito de rosas no florista — muito mais, muito mais que na modista! — para aprazer ao grande amor. Pois do que o grande amor quer saber mesmo, é de amor, é de amor, de amor a esmo; depois, um tutuzinho com torresmo conta ponto a favor…
Conta ponto saber fazer coisinhas: ovos mexidos, camarões, sopinhas, molhos, strogonoffs — comidinhas para depois do amor. E o que há de melhor que ir pra cozinha e preparar com amor uma galinha com uma rica e gostosa farofinha, para o seu grande amor?
Para viver um grande amor é muito, muito importante viver sempre junto e até ser, se possível, um só defunto — pra não morrer de dor. É preciso um cuidado permanente não só com o corpo mas também com a mente, pois qualquer “baixo” seu, a amada sente — e esfria um pouco o amor. Há que ser bem cortês sem cortesia; doce e conciliador sem covardia; saber ganhar dinheiro com poesia — para viver um grande amor.
É preciso saber tomar uísque (com o mau bebedor nunca se arrisque!) e ser impermeável ao diz-que-diz-que — que não quer nada com o amor.
Mas tudo isso não adianta nada, se nesta selva oscura e desvairada não se souber achar a bem-amada — para viver um grande amor.
ODI ET AMO (Catullo)
Odi et amo. Quare id faciam, fortasse requiris. Nescio, sed fieri sentio et excrucior.
(Odio y amo. Por qué hago esto, quizá te preguntes. No lo sé, pero así me siento y sufro.)
Poema del Renunciamiento
Jose Angel Buesa
Pasaras por mi vida sin saber que pasaste.
Pasaras en silencio por mi amor, y al pasar,
fingiré una sonrisa, como un dulce contraste
del dolor de quererte … y jamás lo sabrás.
Soñare con el nácar virginal de tu frente;
soñare con tus ojos de esmeraldas de mar;
soñare con tus labios desesperadamente;
soñare con tus besos … y jamás lo sabrás.
Quizás pases con otro que te diga al oído
esas frases que nadie como yo te dirá;
y, ahogando para siempre mi amor inadvertido,
te amare más que nunca … y jamás lo sabrás.
Yo te amare en silencio, como algo inaccesible,
como un sueño que nunca lograré realizar;
y el lejano perfume de mi amor imposible
rozará tus cabellos … y jamás lo sabrás.
Y si un día una lágrima denuncia mi tormento,
– el tormento infinito que te debo ocultar –
te diré sonriente: “No es nada … ha sido el viento”.
Me enjugaré la lágrima … ¡y jamás lo sabrás!
I found this poem when I was in HS, little did I know then how meaningful it would be later in life for me….
It is a wonderful poem by Al Zolynas…
THE WAY HE’D LIKE IT
Let me be the man who
walking among tall trees
is struck by lightning,
but is not killed;
who somersaults in a cloud
fizzing with burnt hair
and lands on his feet, shoes smoking,
and shakes his head saying,
“Jesus, that smarts!”
Let me be the man
hit by the last ash
of a dissolving meteorite.
Let it light on my head
like a benediction.
Let me be the man who walks
away from shipwrecks.
In a leveled city,
let me be the man found
17 days later under a former
insurance building sucking
air through the plumbing saying
“I never really thought of giving up.”
From all disasters let me rise
wholly. On my face,
let me have beautiful dueling scars.
The Invitation
Oriah Mountain Dreamer
It doesn’t interest me what you do for a living.
I want to know what you ache for
and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart’s longing.
It doesn’t interest me how old you are.
I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool
for love
for your dream
for the adventure of being alive.
It doesn’t interest me what planets are squaring your moon…
I want to know if you have touched the centre of your own sorrow
if you have been opened by life’s betrayals
or have become shrivelled and closed
from fear of further pain.
I want to know if you can sit with pain
mine or your own
without moving to hide it
or fade it
or fix it.
I want to know if you can be with joy
mine or your own
if you can dance with wildness
and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes
without cautioning us
to be careful
to be realistic
to remember the limitations of being human.
It doesn’t interest me if the story you are telling me
is true.
I want to know if you can
disappoint another
to be true to yourself.
If you can bear the accusation of betrayal
and not betray your own soul.
If you can be faithless
and therefore trustworthy.
I want to know if you can see Beauty
even when it is not pretty
every day.
And if you can source your own life
from its presence.
I want to know if you can live with failure
yours and mine
and still stand at the edge of the lake
and shout to the silver of the full moon,
“Yes.”
It doesn’t interest me
to know where you live or how much money you have.
I want to know if you can get up
after the night of grief and despair
weary and bruised to the bone
and do what needs to be done
to feed the children.
It doesn’t interest me who you know
or how you came to be here.
I want to know if you will stand
in the centre of the fire
with me
and not shrink back.
It doesn’t interest me where or what or with whom
you have studied.
I want to know what sustains you
from the inside
when all else falls away.
I want to know if you can be alone
with yourself
and if you truly like the company you keep
in the empty moments.
Thomas Traherne: Shadows in the Water
Thus did I by the Water’s brink
Another World beneath me think;
And while the lofty spacious Skies
Reversed there abus’d mine Eyes
I fancy’d other Feet
Came mine to touch or meet;
As by som Puddle I did play
Another world within it lay.
In unexperience’d Infancy
Many a sweet mistake doth lye:
Mistake tho false, intending true;
A seeming somewhat more than View;
That doth instruct the Mind
In Things that lye behind,
And many sweet Secrets to us show
Which afterwards we come to know.
Where Skies beneath us shine,
And earth by art divine
Another face present below,
Where People’s feet agains Ours go.
I call’d them oft, but called in vain;
No speeches we could entertain..
By walking Men’s reversed Feet
I chanc’d another World to meet;
Tho it did not to view exceed
A Phantasm, ’tis a World indeed..
Within the Regions of the Air
Compass’d about with Hevn’s fair,
Great Tracts of Land there may be found
Enricht with Fields and fertile Ground;
Where many num’rous Hosts,
In those far distant Coasts,
For other great and glorious Ends,
Inhabit, my yet unknown Friends..
Thomas Traherne (1637-1674)
From my dissertation on Metaphysical poets at the department for English Literature-
Elizabethan and Renaissance Studies:
‘The Path to Light’
Thomas Traherne in the Context of Time
-A philosophical Survey-
The Greek were sailors and explorer. Their home was the sea. Like Odysseus they started off in their fragile ships for distant countries to see the world and trade with friend and enemy. Therefore it was quite natural for them to open themselves on an intellectual ship for the investigation of the unknown oceans of the spirit. They did this adventure with their single and inexplicable talent again and again for almost one thousand years, from the first movements of the philosophy in Milet at the beginning of the sixth century before Christ to the triumphs of the Alexandrian scholars in the fourth century after Christ.
They presented mankind a mirror which showed what it is capable of. Today we have all similarity to these Greek. As rabble-rousers and adventurers we attack existing traditions and endure in changing all existing rules. The history of mankind consists in a departure from a condition of undifferentiated primal unity with himself and with nature. An intermediate period in which man’s powers are developed through differentiation and alienation with himself and with nature and a final return to a unity on a higher level or harmony.
Odysseus finally arrives home in Ithaca, not in spite of, but because of his wanderings. And as a modern Ulysses we learn that the longest way round is the shortest way home…
One Art
The art of losing isn’t hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster,
Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.
Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.
I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three beloved houses went.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.
I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.
– Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident
the art of losing’s not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) a disaster.
Elizabeth Bishop
I forgot the author of this poem, but here it is:
I think of you so many times
and wish with all my heart
that i could reach accross the miles that keep us far apart
and somehow just communicate the things i’d like to say
if I were standing close to you instead of far away.
Poema Cuando Lejos Muy Lejos
Julio Florez, poeta colombiano
Cuando lejos muy lejos, en hondos mares,
en lo mucho que sufro pienses a solas,
si exhalas un suspiro por mis pesares,
mándame ese suspiro sobre las olas.
Cuando el sol con sus rayos desde el oriente
rasgue las blondas gasas de las neblinas,
si una oración murmuras por el ausente,
deja que me la traigan las golondrinas.
Cuando la tarde pierda sus tristes galas,
y en cenizas se tornen las nubes rojas,
mándame un beso ardiente sobre las alas
de las brisas que juegan entre las hojas.
Que yo, cuando la noche tienda su manto,
yo, que llevo en el alma sus mudas huellas,
te enviaré, con mis quejas, un dulce canto
en la luz temblorosa de las estrellas!
Soneto do Amor Total (Vinicius de Moraes)
Amo-te tanto, meu amor… não cante
O humano coração com mais verdade…
Amo-te como amigo e como amante
Numa sempre diversa realidade.
Amo-te afim, de um calmo amor prestante
E te amo além, presente na saudade
Amo-te, enfim, com grande liberdade
Dentro da eternidade e a cada instante.
Amo-te como um bicho, simplesmente
De um amor sem mistério e sem virtude
Com um desejo maciço e permanente.
E de te amar assim, muito e amiúde
É que um dia em teu corpo de repente
Hei de morrer de amar mais do que pude.
Caro Paulo!
Segue outro poema, que até gosto mais do que o anterior que enviei:
MAR PORTUGUÊS
Ó mar salgado, quanto do teu sal
São lágrimas de Portugal!
Por te cruzarmos, quantas mães choraram,
Quantos filhos em vão rezaram!
Quantas noivas ficaram por casar
Para que fosses nosso, ó mar!
Valeu a pena? Tudo vale a pena
Se a alma não é pequena.
Quem quer passar além do Bojador
Tem que passar além da dor.
Deus ao mar o perigo e o abismo deu,
Mas nele é que espelhou o céu.
Grato!
Renato Augusto Avino (from Brazil)
Este poema, Mar Português, também é do Fernando Pessoa.
Caro Paulo!
Sei que é contraditória, uma vez que sempre estudei a espiritualidade, mas meu poema preferido é “Há Metafísica Bastante em Não Pensar em Nada” do Alberto Caeiro / Fernando Pessoa.
“Há metafísica bastante em não pensar em nada.
O que penso eu do mundo?
Sei lá o que penso do mundo!
Se eu adoecesse pensaria nisso.
Que idéia tenho eu das cousas?
Que opinião tenho sobre as causas e os efeitos?
Que tenho eu meditado sobre Deus e a alma
E sobre a criação do Mundo?
Não sei. Para mim pensar nisso é fechar os olhos
E não pensar. É correr as cortinas
Da minha janela (mas ela não tem cortinas).
O mistério das cousas? Sei lá o que é mistério!
O único mistério é haver quem pense no mistério.
Quem está ao sol e fecha os olhos,
Começa a não saber o que é o sol
E a pensar muitas cousas cheias de calor.
Mas abre os olhos e vê o sol,
E já não pode pensar em nada,
Porque a luz do sol vale mais que os pensamentos
De todos os filósofos e de todos os poetas.
A luz do sol não sabe o que faz
E por isso não erra e é comum e boa.
Metafísica? Que metafísica têm aquelas árvores?
A de serem verdes e copadas e de terem ramos
E a de dar fruto na sua hora, o que não nos faz pensar,
A nós, que não sabemos dar por elas.
Mas que melhor metafísica que a delas,
Que é a de não saber para que vivem
Nem saber que o não sabem?
“Constituição íntima das cousas”…
“Sentido íntimo do Universo”…
Tudo isto é falso, tudo isto não quer dizer nada.
É incrível que se possa pensar em cousas dessas.
É como pensar em razões e fins
Quando o começo da manhã está raiando, e pelos lados das árvores
Um vago ouro lustroso vai perdendo a escuridão.
Pensar no sentido íntimo das cousas
É acrescentado, como pensar na saúde
Ou levar um copo à água das fontes.
O único sentido íntimo das cousas
É elas não terem sentido íntimo nenhum.
Não acredito em Deus porque nunca o vi.
Se ele quisesse que eu acreditasse nele,
Sem dúvida que viria falar comigo
E entraria pela minha porta dentro
Dizendo-me, Aqui estou!
(Isto é talvez ridículo aos ouvidos
De quem, por não saber o que é olhar para as cousas,
Não compreende quem fala delas
Com o modo de falar que reparar para elas ensina.)
Mas se Deus é as flores e as árvores
E os montes e sol e o luar,
Então acredito nele,
Então acredito nele a toda a hora,
E a minha vida é toda uma oração e uma missa,
E uma comunhão com os olhos e pelos ouvidos.
Mas se Deus é as árvores e as flores
E os montes e o luar e o sol,
Para que lhe chamo eu Deus?
Chamo-lhe flores e árvores e montes e sol e luar;
Porque, se ele se fez, para eu o ver,
Sol e luar e flores e árvores e montes,
Se ele me aparece como sendo árvores e montes
E luar e sol e flores,
É que ele quer que eu o conheça
Como árvores e montes e flores e luar e sol.
E por isso eu obedeço-lhe,
(Que mais sei eu de Deus que Deus de si próprio?).
Obedeço-lhe a viver, espontaneamente,
Como quem abre os olhos e vê,
E chamo-lhe luar e sol e flores e árvores e montes,
E amo-o sem pensar nele,
E penso-o vendo e ouvindo,
E ando com ele a toda a hora.”
~ o ~
I summoned her from the deep mystery of the past
Where she’s a shadow among shadows
A vestige among vestiges
A ghost among ghosts.
And she answered my call
She came to me
Scattering races
And running over the centuries
The laws of time astounded tried to grab her;
The souls in their graves cried lugubriously: ‘Stop!’
Ages tried to hold back with their invisible hooks
Her faded clothes
But everything was useless
With her loose hair that smelled like eternity
That strange queen
Dressed as a chimera
Ran freely after my will
When she came to me I asked:
‘Remember the promise you gave to me in the year 1000?’
‘You must know I’m a shadow…’
‘I know’
‘That I was out of my mind…’
‘You promised me a kiss!’
‘It was frozen by death!’
‘Queens do not break their promises!’
And she kissed my lips…
this is my absolute favorite poem by the mexican poet amando nervo
Soneto da Fidelidade ( Vinicius de Moraes)
De tudo, meu amor serei atento
Antes, e com tal zelo, e sempre, e tanto
Que mesmo em face do maior encanto
Dele se encante mais meu pensamento.
Quero vivê-lo em cada vão momento
E em seu louvor hei de espalhar meu canto
E rir meu riso e derramar meu pranto
Ao seu pesar ou seu contentamento.
E assim, quando mais tarde me procure
Quem sabe a morte, angústia de quem vive
Quem sabe a solidão, fim de quem ama
Eu possa me dizer do amor ( que tive ) :
Que não seja imortal, posto que é chama
Mas que seja infinito enquanto dure.
Upstairs By: Valentino Assenza
He’s waiting for me
upstairs,
in the bedroom
it’s the reason
why the thermostat
isn’t making much
of a difference,
it’s the reason
why I keep hearing
a vibrating noise
and no one else does
and why I’m that much
closer to tears
cause I know
the only way
to make that
vibrating noise stop.
He’s waiting for me
upstairs,
and I’m trying to focus
my eyes on the
finer details
like an empty stained
espresso cup,
my wife
wiping her brow
as she yawns,
and that pattern
on the kitchen tiles.
But he’s waiting for me
upstairs,
and I don’t want to go
it’s why I hold her
waist a little tighter,
why my lips stick
to her cheek a little longer,
and why I linger
for a few seconds more
after “goodnight”….
“Buona notte..”
And I’ll get to the top
of these stairs
and look back once more
catching the light from the
kitchen, and the muffled sounds
from the television
and I’ll enter that room
that’s colder than most
and his hand will be there
only a few seconds will pass
before I take it.
And so I’ll be taken
over seven decades
dispelled in a wink
with the whisper of
life’s sands slipping away,
my eyes will be closed
by grace,
my body felled
by the turn
of this life’s chapter,
and I’ll be treated
to a final once around
that exists on the multicoloured
collage that makes up
of my life,
that precious
subliminal taste
of the past through
my senses
The sight
of the endless
Mediterranean in the afternoon,
my father peeling
me a cucumber from
the garden,
and a lizard
crawling across a stone wall
the smells of jasmine
outside my house
the day I left my homeland
tomato sauce on a stove
so good I want to break
a piece of bread off
and dip it in the pan
the taste
of bread,
cheese and olives
in my mouth
at the same time
chased with my
own painstaking
homemade wine.
the feel
of her hand first
brushing mine
and my body
first brushing hers,
the sounds
of my daughter’s first
cries,
the scattered laughter
of my grandchildren,
clamour and banter
at the dinner table
totaling to Pavarotti
in Tosca
singing:
“L’ora e fuggita,
e muoio disperato
e muuoio disperato…”
And then the fog
will part,
and the dust will
settle
and I’ll
pass through
two endless pillars
and the white
threshold that
snaps like thunder
only to be halted
by St.Peter’s staff
But you my love
you’ll wipe your tears,
and days will pass
with you in the garden
mending fallen flowers,
and grandchildren
on your lap
looking up at you
with regal admiration,
eventually
you won’t wear black
anymore,
you’ll get the hang of days again
laughing at jokes
will come a little easier,
you’ll take sunny
dewey early morning
walks,
you’ll be a walking
definition for pride,
one day
maybe not so soon,
you’ll come home
one night
make yourself an espresso stretto,
the thermostat
won’t work like it’s
supposed to,
you’ll hear that same
vibration coming
from the coldest
room in the house,
don’t be alarmed
my love,
leave the dishes in the sink,
turn off the television,
no need for panic my love,
it will just be me
with my hand out,
waiting for you
upstairs.
Openly I admit, with much joy and such glee;
Enslaved to your love, from both worlds I am free.
As a bird of Paradise, to parting I did agree
Fell in the trap of life and worldly tragedy.
I was an angel, I resided in the heavens;
Renovation of the world – the mission given to me.
The nymphs of paradise, the cool ponds and the tree
In the hope of union, swiftly left my memory.
On the tablet of my heart, inscribed from a to z
It is all about you, I can’t see other than thee.
No soothsayer foretold of my exit or entry
O Lord, this journey, why did you for me decree?
I am but a slave of the Tavern of Love
Each moment, a new pain becomes my new remedy.
If my bleeding heart pours out of my tearful eyes
It’s just, I deserve; why to others I make my plea?
Wipe away Hafiz’s tears with your hands so he can see
Or else, this flood, brings all of us to our knee.
فاش میگویم و از گفته خود دلـشادم
بـنده عشقـم و از هر دو جهان آزادم
طایر گلشن قدسم چه دهـم شرح فراق
کـه در این دامگه حادثه چون افـتادم
مـن ملک بودم و فردوس برین جایم بود
آدم آورد در این دیر خراب آبادم
سایه طوبی و دلجویی حور و لـب حوض
بـه هوای سر کوی تو برفـت از یادم
نیسـت بر لوح دلم جز الف قامت دوست
چـه کـنـم حرف دگر یاد نداد استادم
کوکـب بخـت مرا هیچ منجم نشناخت
یا رب از مادر گیتی به چـه طالـع زادم
تا شدم حلقه به گوش در میخانه عشق
هر دم آید غمی از نو بـه مـبارک بادم
می خورد خون دلم مردمک دیده سزاست
کـه چرا دل به جگرگوشـه مردم دادم
پاک کن چهره حافظ به سر زلف ز اشـک
ور نـه این سیل دمادم بـبرد بـنیادم
Раковина.Быть может я тебе не нужен,Ночь;из пучины мировой,Как раковина без жемчужин,Я выброшен на берег твой.Ты равнодушно воды пенишь И несговорчиво поёшь;Но ты полюбишь,ты оценишь Ненужной раковины ложь.Ты на песок с ней рядом ляжешь,Оденешь ризою своей,Ты неразрывно с нею свяжешь Огромный колокол зыбей;И хрупкой раковины стены,Как нежилого сердца дом,Наполнишь шёпотами пены,Туманом,ветром и дождём…
Le Marteau sans maître, 1934
Tu es pressé d’écrire,
Comme si tu étais en retard sur la vie.
S’il en est ainsi fais cortège à tes sources.
Hâte-toi.
Hâte-toi de transmettre
Ta part de merveilleux de rébellion de bienfaisance.
Effectivement tu es en retard sur la vie,
La vie inexprimable,
La seule en fin de compte à laquelle tu acceptes de t’unir,
Celle qui t’est refusée chaque jour par les êtres et par les choses,
Dont tu obtiens péniblement de-ci de-là quelques fragments décharnés
Au bout de combats sans merci.
Hors d’elle, tout n’est qu’agonie soumise, fin grossière.
Si tu rencontres la mort durant ton labeur,
Reçois-là comme la nuque en sueur trouve bon le mouchoir aride,
En t’inclinant.
Si tu veux rire,
Offre ta soumission,
Jamais tes armes.
Tu as été créé pour des moments peu communs.
Modifie-toi, disparais sans regret
Au gré de la rigueur suave.
Quartier suivant quartier la liquidation du monde se poursuit
Sans interruption,
Sans égarement.
Essaime la poussière
Nul ne décèlera votre union.
René Char (Commune présence)
Merci Catherine pour le partage.
:)
Here is a favourite one in Swedish by late Karin Boye, not the most famous one but very inspiring to me:
Morgon
När morgonens sol genom rutan smyger,
glad och försiktig,
lik ett barn, som vill överraska
tidigt, tidigt en festlig dag –
då sträcker jag full av växande jubel
öppna famnen mot stundande dag –
ty dagen är du,
och ljuset är du,
solen är du,
och våren är du,
och hela det vackra, vackra,
väntande livet är du!
And in English:
MORNING
When the morning’s sun steals through the window-pane,
happy and cautious,
like a child who wants to surprise
early, early on a festive day -
then I stretch full of growing exultation
my open arms to the coming day -
for the day is you,
and the light is you,
the sun is you,
and the spring is you,
and all of beautiful, beautiful
waiting life is you!
More can be found at http://www.karinboye.se
its called (Hymn to Rain) for bader Alseyab
one of the greatest poems in Arabic.
language:Arabic
أنشودة المطر
بدر شاكر السياب
عيناكِ غابتا نخيلٍ ساعةَ السحر
أو شرفتانِ راحَ ينأى عنهُما القمر
عيناكِ حين تبسمانِ تُورقُ الكروم
وترقصُ الأضواءُ.. كالأقمارِ في نهر
يرجُّهُ المجذافُ وَهْناً ساعةَ السحر…
كأنّما تنبُضُ في غوريهما النجوم
وتغرقان في ضبابٍ من أسىً شفيف
كالبحرِ سرَّحَ اليدينِ فوقَهُ المساء
دفءُ الشتاءِ فيه وارتعاشةُ الخريف
والموتُ والميلادُ والظلامُ والضياء
فتستفيقُ ملء روحي، رعشةُ البكاء
ونشوةٌ وحشيةٌ تعانق السماء
كنشوةِ الطفلِ إذا خاف من القمر
كأنَّ أقواسَ السحابِ تشربُ الغيوم..
وقطرةً فقطرةً تذوبُ في المطر…
وكركرَ الأطفالُ في عرائش الكروم
ودغدغت صمتَ العصافيرِ على الشجر
أنشودةُ المطر
مطر
مطر
مطر
تثاءبَ المساءُ والغيومُ ما تزال
تسحّ ما تسحّ من دموعها الثقال:
كأنّ طفلاً باتَ يهذي قبلَ أنْ ينام
بأنّ أمّه – التي أفاقَ منذ عام
فلم يجدْها، ثم حين لجَّ في السؤال
قالوا له: “بعد غدٍ تعود” -
لا بدّ أنْ تعود
وإنْ تهامسَ الرفاقُ أنّها هناك
في جانبِ التلِ تنامُ نومةَ اللحود،
تسفُّ من ترابها وتشربُ المطر
كأنّ صياداً حزيناً يجمعُ الشباك
ويلعنُ المياهَ والقدر
وينثرُ الغناء حيث يأفلُ القمر
مطر، مطر، المطر
أتعلمين أيَّ حزنٍ يبعثُ المطر؟
وكيف تنشجُ المزاريبُ إذا انهمر؟
وكيف يشعرُ الوحيدُ فيه بالضياع؟
بلا انتهاء_ كالدمِ المُراق، كالجياع كالحبّ كالأطفالِ كالموتى –
هو المطر
ومقلتاك بي تطيفان مع المطر
وعبرَ أمواجِ الخليجِ تمسحُ البروق
سواحلَ العراقِ
بالنجومِ والمحار،
كأنها تهمُّ بالشروق
فيسحبُ الليلُ عليها من دمٍ دثار
أصيحُ بالخيلج: “يا خليج
يا واهبَ اللؤلؤ والمحارِ والردى”
فيرجع الصدى كأنّهُ النشيج:
“يا خليج: يا واهب المحار والردى”
أكادُ أسمعُ العراقَ يذخرُ الرعود
ويخزنُ البروقَ في السهولِ والجبال
حتى إذا ما فضّ عنها ختمَها الرجال
لم تترك الرياحُ من ثمود
في الوادِ من أثر
أكادُ أسمعُ النخيلَ يشربُ المطر
وأسمعُ القرى تئنّ، والمهاجرين
يصارعون بالمجاذيفِ وبالقلوع
عواصفَ الخليجِ والرعود، منشدين
مطر.. مطر .. مطر
وفي العراقِ جوعٌ
وينثرُ الغلال فيه موسم الحصاد
لتشبعَ الغربانُ والجراد
وتطحن الشوان والحجر
رحىً تدورُ في الحقولِ… حولها بشر
مطر
مطر
مطر
وكم ذرفنا ليلةَ الرحيل من دموع
ثم اعتللنا – خوفَ أن نُلامَ – بالمطر
مطر
مطر
ومنذ أن كنّا صغاراً، كانت السماء
تغيمُ في الشتاء
ويهطلُ المطر
وكلّ عامٍ – حين يعشبُ الثرى- نجوع
ما مرَّ عامٌ والعراقُ ليسَ فيه جوع
مطر
مطر
مطر
في كلّ قطرةٍ من المطر
حمراءُ أو صفراءُ من أجنّة الزهر
وكلّ دمعةٍ من الجياعِ والعراة
وكلّ قطرةٍ تُراقُ من دمِ العبيد
فهي ابتسامٌ في انتظارِ مبسمٍ جديد
أو حلمةٌ تورّدتْ على فمِ الوليد
في عالمِ الغدِ الفتيّ واهبِ الحياة
مطر
مطر
مطر
سيعشبُ العراقُ بالمطر
أصيحُ بالخليج: “يا خليج..
يا واهبَ اللؤلؤ والمحار والردى”
فيرجع الصدى كأنه النشيج:
“يا خليج: يا واهب المحار والردى”
وينثرُ الخليجُ من هباته الكثار
على الرمال، رغوةَ الأجاج، والمحار
وما تبقى من عظام بائس غريق
من المهاجرين ظل يشرب الردى
من لجة الخليج والقرار
وفي العراق ألف أفعى تشرب الرحيق
من زهرة يرُبّها الفرات بالندى
وأسمعُ الصدى
يرنّ في الخليج:
مطر
مطر
مطر
في كل قطرةٍ من المطر
حمراءُ أو صفراءُ من أجنةِ الزهر
وكلّ دمعةٍ من الجياعِ والعراة
وكل قطرةٍ تُراق من دمِ العبيد
فهي ابتسامٌ في انتظارِ مبسمٍ جديد
أو حلمةٌ تورّدت على فمِ الوليد
في عالمِ الغدِ الفتي، واهبِ الحياة
ويهطلُ المطرُ
Just looking at the writing, I can see a rainbow.So beautiful!
Thank you.
Alone in the mirror when I huff
Away they stay, caged in mirage
Around the twelfth hour, I frown
for hose as when my lips ran dry
Away they stay, the world and I,
ran for the human race and died,
for the same blood in me as theirs
didn’t cross riches and pride
Now, I rant, rove, bleed, burn…
So I love you and hate myself for
being so outrageous to this evil,
weird bigots who rule the globe
There is hatred, the soul bleeds
in me have departed a while ago
Now you smile, smell, hear, tear,
and die like me for being crude
To say the least in worthless,
To hell with all generations
To hell with caste, creed
And to hell with prejudice
Never, ever utter truth my ally
Never, ever let your soul fly
Never, ever strive too hard and,
Never, ever strain too much…
Now, let the rain fall and heal
your wounds and the woes,
Let it fall out from your heart
And let’s live in love serenely…
(Written by myself)
Such a beautiful piece.
Man, that was a heavy stuff. Thanku for sharing it.
Hav u got any reply from him??? wonderful. thx
Um dos meus preferidos entre tantos… Carlos Drummond de Andrade
As sem razões do amor
Eu te amo porque te amo.
Não precisas ser amante,
e nem sempre sabes sê-lo.
Eu te amo porque te amo.
Amor é estado de graça
e com amor não se paga.
Amor é dado de graça,
é semeado no vento,
na cachoeira, no elipse.
Amor foge a dicionários
e a regulamentos vários.
Eu te amo porque não amo
bastante ou demais a mim.
Porque amor não se troca,
não se conjuga nem se ama.
Porque amor é amor a nada,
feliz e forte em si mesmo.
Amor é primo da morte,
e da morte vencedor,
por mais que o matem (e matam)
a cada instante de amor…
Un poema de Gabriela Mistral:
Tenho a dita fiel e a dita perdida:
a uma como rosa, a outra como espinha.
Do que me roubaram não fui desposeída;
tenho a dita fiel e a dita perdida,
e estou rica de púrpura e de melancolia.
¡Ai, que amante é a rosa e daí amada a espinha!
Como o duplo contorno de duas frutas gêmeas
tenho a dita fiel e a dita perdida
I have the faithful happiness
and the lost happiness:
the one as rose, other one as thorn.
Of what they stole me I was not deprived;
I have the faithful happiness and the lost happiness,
and am rich of purple and of melancholy.
Sigh, what lover is the rose and what loved the thorn!
Since(as) the double contour of two twin fruits
I have the faithful happiness and the lost happiness
Tengo la dicha fiel
y la dicha perdida:
la una como rosa,
la otra como espina.
De lo que me robaron
no fui desposeída;
tengo la dicha fiel
y la dicha perdida,
y estoy rica de púrpura
y de melancolía.
¡Ay, qué amante es la rosa
y qué amada la espina!
Como el doble contorno
de dos frutas mellizas
tengo la dicha fiel
y la dicha perdida
DEFINIÇÃO DE POESIA
Um risco maduro de assobio.
O trincar do gelo comprimido.
A noite, a folha sob o granizo.
Rouxinóis num dueto-desafio.
Um doce ervilhal abandonado
A dor do universo numa fava.
Fígaro: das estantes e flautas
Geada no canteiro, tombado.
Tudo o que para a noite releva
Nas funduras da casa de banho,
Trazer para o jardim uma estrela
Nas palmas úmidas, tiritando.
Mormaço: como pranchas na água,
Mais raso. Céu de bétulas, turvo.
Se dirá que as estrelas gargalham,
E no entanto o universo está surdo.
Boris Pasternak (Tradução de Haroldo de Campos).
One of my favourite poem from Indonesian poet. AS translated and posted in http://punyabagus.blogspot.com/2008/06/chairil-anwar-poet-of-generation.html
Announcement
To dictate is not my intent,
Fate is separate loneliness-es.
I choose you from among the rest, but
in a moment we are snared by loneliness once more.
There was a time I truly wanted you,
to be as children in crowning darkness,
and we kissed and fondled, not tiring.
I did not want to ever let you go.
Do not unite your life with mine,
for I cannot be with anyone for very long
I write now on a ship, in some nameless sea.
(1946)
I would love to share The Invitation by Oriah Mountain Dreamer
It doesn’t interest me what you do for a living.
I want to know what you ache for
and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart’s longing.
It doesn’t interest me how old you are.
I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool
for love
for your dream
for the adventure of being alive.
It doesn’t interest me what planets are squaring your moon…
I want to know if you have touched the centre of your own sorrow
if you have been opened by life’s betrayals
or have become shrivelled and closed
from fear of further pain.
I want to know if you can sit with pain
mine or your own
without moving to hide it
or fade it
or fix it.
I want to know if you can be with joy
mine or your own
if you can dance with wildness
and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes
without cautioning us
to be careful
to be realistic
to remember the limitations of being human.
It doesn’t interest me if the story you are telling me
is true.
I want to know if you can
disappoint another
to be true to yourself.
If you can bear the accusation of betrayal
and not betray your own soul.
If you can be faithless
and therefore trustworthy.
I want to know if you can see Beauty
even when it is not pretty
every day.
And if you can source your own life
from its presence.
I want to know if you can live with failure
yours and mine
and still stand at the edge of the lake
and shout to the silver of the full moon,
“Yes.”
It doesn’t interest me to know where you live
or how much money you have
I want to know if you can get up
after the night of grief and despair
weary and bruised to the bone
and do what needs to be done
to feed the children.
It dosen’t interest me who you know
or how you came to be here
I want to know if you will still stand
in the centre of the fire
with me
and not shrink back
It dosen’t interest me where or with whom
you have studied
I want to know what sustains you
from the inside
When all else falls away
I want to know if you can be alone with yourself
and if you truly like the company you keep
in the empty moments
Oriah Mountain Dreamer
Hey Sheela,
Nice to know that you too were able to relate to it in your unique context…guess that’s the beauty of a poetry you just connect…
Cheers,
Niketa
I really like this one too!
I hope it gets elected :-)
This is my favorite poem at this time in my life. Its by Cordie B. a beautiful Blog friend of mine for over two years. Love you Cordie B.
I have been blessed through out the years
by kin and strangers alike who have caught my tears
Who have gave me strength; eased my fears. . .
Into their basin of unconditional love supreme . . .
and turned those tears so magically
into a blessing; making sad eyes gleam
who have turned nightmares into dreams . . .
All webs in life are weaved together
we all are one; from begining until forever
though we may be close or lightyears apart
our actions send endless waves rippling to all hearts
So often we may not realize
What we do and say travel endless miles
When we feed the hungry; or simply give a smile . .
However we relate to our fellow man
is chain reacted across the land and back again
Thus far I’ve been blessed beyond compare
From the whole of humanity, timeless; everywhere
And so I feel compelled to pass on a blessing
to aide humanity in not regressing
into the darkness of separation and instinct
because were’re all connected by a common link
So though you may be close or very far,
your light warms humanity like a distant star
Without you there would be no me
Thus, I’m grateful for your being, eternally
For the love you share, I say UBUNTU
I am what I am because of all of you!
Sun brings forth life as a distant star
As such, I AM BECAUSE YOU ARE!
~Written especially for YOU – By CordieB.
Lyckokatt
Jag har en lyckokatt i famnen,
den spinner lyckotråd.
Lyckokatt, lyckokatt,
skaffa mig tre ting:
skaffa mig en gyllne ring,
som säger mig att jag är lycklig;
skaffa mig en spegel,
som säger mig att jag är skön;
skaffa mig en solfjäder,
som fläktar bort mina påhängsna tankar.
Lyckokatt, lyckokatt,
spinn mig ännu litet om min framtid!
Happy Cat
I have a happy cat in my arms,
it purrs a happy thread.
Happy cat, happy cat
get me three things:
get me a golden ring
which tells me I’m happy;
get me a mirror,
which tells me I’m beautiful;
get me a fan,
which can blow away all intimate thoughts.
Happy cat, happy cat,
purr me some more about my future.
(Spinna is in Swedish both the word a cat
makes when it is happy and the word for
spinning thread.)
Edith Södergran
Sheela – it is both. It is bittersweet and dreaming and still you sense the joy of the moment. Edith suffered from TBC from a young age and died only 31 years old, never married. She is considered to be the first Finnish-Swedish modernist and she has influenced several later poets and musicians.
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