Mostrar mensagens com a etiqueta Richard Brautigan. Mostrar todas as mensagens
Mostrar mensagens com a etiqueta Richard Brautigan. Mostrar todas as mensagens

terça-feira, 1 de dezembro de 2009

Arte e Poesia em «Modus Vivendi»

Poetry And Religion

Religions are poems. They concert
our daylight and dreaming mind, our
emotions, instinct, breath and native gesture
into the only whole thinking: poetry.
Nothing's said till it's dreamed out in words
and nothing's true that figures in words only.
A poem, compared with an arrayed religion,
may be like a soldier's one short marriage night
to die and live by. But that is a small religion.
Full religion is the large poem in loving repetition;
like any poem, it must be inexhaustible and complete
with turns where we ask Now why did the poet do that?
You can't pray a lie, said Huckleberry Finn;
you can't poe one either. It is the same mirror:
mobile, glancing, we call it poetry,
fixed centrally, we call it a religion,
and God is the poetry caught in any religion,
caught, not imprisoned. Caught as in a mirror
that he attracted, being in the world as poetry
is in the poem, a law against its closure.
There'll always be religion around while there is poetry
or a lack of it. Both are given, and intermittent,
as the action of those birds - crested pigeon, rosella parrot -
who fly with wings shut, then beating, and again shut.
.
Les Murray
.

26 de novembro de 2009

Adolphe Etienne Piot

Etienne_Adolphe_Piot__2.jpg
um momento, uma pausa, uma expressão

a day or two

Baffled for just a day or two—
Embarrassed—not afraid—
Encounter in my garden
An unexpected Maid.
She beckons, and the woods start—
She nods, and all begin—
Surely, such a country
I was never in!
.
Emily Dickinson
.

25 de novembro de 2009

Charles Lidderdale

Charles_Lidderdale1.JPG
um certo orgulho
.

.

Tua mão

Com uma das mãos sobre o meu corpo
vais dormir em paz
não consigo dormir, por isso
o peso leve da mão
aos poucos passa a ser de chumbo
a noite é longa
permaneces no mesmo lugar
essa mão só pode ser afeto
talvez tenha outro significado secreto
Não ouso afastá-la
nem acordar-te de repente
quando me acostumo e me afeiçoo a ela
em sonho tu a recolhes, súbito
e ignora tudo
.
Han Dong, trad. Régis Bonvicino e Yao Feng
.

24 de novembro de 2009

Henry Tanworth Wells

Henry_Tanworth_Wells.JPG

.todo um perfil, à beira da noite
.

Yes, the Fish Music

A trout-colored wind blows
through my eyes, through my fingers,
and I remember how the trout
used to hide from the dinosaurs
when they came to drink at the river.
The trout hid in subways, castles,
and automobiles. They waited patiently for the dinosaurs to go away.
.
Richard Brautigan
.

23 de novembro de 2009

Albert Lynch

albert_lynch.jpg
.
do olhar perdido
.

Vento de Outono

(gentileza de Amélia Pais)
Vento de Outono, vento solitário,
Vento de noite,
Força obscura que se desprende
Do infinito e volta ao infinito,
Rodopia dentro de mim, conjura
Contra meu coração tua força,
Arranca de uma vez a casca
Do fruto que não madura.
.
Joan Vinyoli, trad. João Cabral de Mello Neto
.

22 de novembro de 2009

Me, change! Me, alter!

Me, change! Me, alter!
Then I will, when on the Everlasting Hill
A Smaller Purple grows—
At sunset, or a lesser glow
Flickers upon Cordillera—
At Day's superior close!
.
Emily Dickinson
.

Albert Lynch

Lynch_Albert_A_Young_Beauty_With_Fl.jpg
.
jovem beldade oitocentista
.

21 de novembro de 2009

Sobre o Gesto

.
Além do gesto, senhora, a importância
decide a vida. Estrangula o choro,
refaz o sentido.
Senhora, o choro retrai
a angústia em restante medo.
Fosse o sono a dedilhar
a corda imensurável da música
de fundo, senhora. O choro
é o carrilhão desabalado do relógio
ao findar da corda.
.
Pedro Du Bois
.

quinta-feira, 12 de novembro de 2009

11 de novembro de 2009

Bored

All those times I was bored
out of my mind. Holding the log
while he sawed it. Holding
the string while he measured, boards,
distances between things, or pounded
stakes into the ground for rows and rows
of lettuces and beets, which I then (bored)
weeded. Or sat in the back
of the car, or sat still in boats,
sat, sat, while at the prow, stern, wheel
he drove, steered, paddled. It
wasn't even boredom, it was looking,
looking hard and up close at the small
details. Myopia. The worn gunwales,
the intricate twill of the seat
cover. The acid crumbs of loam, the granular
pink rock, its igneous veins, the sea-fans
of dry moss, the blackish and then the graying
bristles on the back of his neck.
Sometimes he would whistle, sometimes
I would. The boring rhythm of doing
things over and over, carrying
the wood, drying
the dishes. Such minutiae. It's what
the animals spend most of their time at,
ferrying the sand, grain by grain, from their tunnels,
shuffling the leaves in their burrows. He pointed
such things out, and I would look
at the whorled texture of his square finger, earth under
the nail. Why do I remember it as sunnier
all the time then, although it more often
rained, and more birdsong?
I could hardly wait to get
the hell out of there to
anywhere else. Perhaps though
boredom is happier. It is for dogs or
groundhogs. Now I wouldn't be bored.
Now I would know too much.
Now I would know.

.

Margaret Atwood
.

Gustave Jean Jacquet

Jacquet_Gustave_Jean_A_Quick_Glance.jpg
.
um olhar atento
.

Boo, Forever

Spinning like a ghost
on the bottom of a
top,
I'm haunted by all
the space that I
will live without
you.

.

Richard Brautigan
.

10 de novembro de 2009

George Freeman

Freeman_George_Portarit_Of_A_Lady.jpg
da nostalgia
.

O Jardineiro Míope

(recordado por Ana Paula Pinto Lourenço)
.

O jardineiro míope levanta-se às cinco horas e vai dar alpista às flores
a seguir rega os pássaros
e enquanto vai regando vai dizendo:
"Que bem cantam as minhas papoulas!"
Um dia a Liga das Senhoras mais Bondosas do Mundo
teve um gesto malvado
e ofereceu óculos ao jardineiro míope
que ajustou implacavelmente as imagens
perdeu toda a poesia
e viu tudo de maneira tão clara
que teve a ideia escura de pedir um emprego de funcionário público
enquanto a presidente da Liga
da Liga mais Bondosa
mais bondosa do mundo
subia para o céu
e se sentava à mão direita de Deus Padre
que lhe enfiou uma bofetada divina
que todos nós ouvimos em forma de trovão.

.

Sidónio Muralha
.