Still I'll give it tou you...
segunda-feira, 27 de setembro de 2010
Pablo Neruda
Para meu coração basta teu peito...
Did you ever heard about the noise that a heart can make?
Did you ever heard about the noise that a heart can make?
domingo, 26 de setembro de 2010
Paulo Leminski - A palmeira estremece
a palmeira estremece
palmas pra ela
que ela merece
Paulo Leminski in Poemas de Paulo Leminski
Paulo Leminski - Escrevo. E pronto.
Escrevo. E pronto.
Escrevo porque preciso,
preciso porque estou tonto.
Ninguém tem nada com isso.
Escrevo porque amanhece,
e as estrelas lá no céu
lembram letras no papel,
quando o poema me anoitece.
A aranha tece teias.
O peixe beija e morde o que vê.
Eu escrevo apenas.
Tem que ter por quê?
Paulo Leminski in Poemas de Paulo Leminski
Amar é sentir o coração a parar, só porque se pôs a pensar como faz para bater!...
domingo, 19 de setembro de 2010
Estrelas, pirilampos, corações, amor...
Não nos cansamos de olhar as estrelas.
E os pirilampos continuam a brilhar.
Nem os pirilampos sabem das estrelas, nem as estrelas pensam em pirilampos.
Fazem aquilo que sabem fazer: brilham sem querer.
O amor não sabe dos pirilampos.
O coração não pode saber das estrelas.
O amor só faz o que sabe fazer e o coração nem pensa no amor: ama sem querer.
Estrelas, pirilampos, corações, amor: tudo coisas de brilhar sem-querer.
Quem já não as olhou sem-querer?
Quem conseguiu parar de o fazer?
Quem se atreveu a olhar um pirilampo com tanta estrela a correr?...
Quantas coisas sem-querer que nos fazem querer viver...
Mary Oliver - Where Does the Dance Begin, Where Does It End?
Don't call this world adorable, or useful, that's not it.
It's frisky, and a theater for more than fair winds.
The eyelash of lightning is neither good nor evil.
The struck tree burns like a pillar of gold.
But the blue rain sinks, straight to the white
feet of the trees
whose mouths open.
Doesn't the wind, turning in circles, invent the dance?
Haven't the flowers moved, slowly, across Asia, then Europe,
until at last, now, they shine
in your own yard?
Don't call this world an explanation, or even an education.
When the Sufi poet whirled, was he looking
outward, to the mountains so solidly there
in a white-capped ring, or was he looking
to the center of everything: the seed, the egg, the idea
that was also there,
beautiful as a thumb
curved and touching the finger, tenderly,
little love-ring,
as he whirled,
oh jug of breath,
in the garden of dust?
-from Why I Wake Early (2004)
Mary Oliver in Poetry
A small word, it's enough to hug the whole earth.
Don't save the world, he has enough love. The world is safe.
Save yourself. Find love. Begin to love.
Mary Oliver - Wild geese
Wild Geese
You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.
from Dream Work by Mary Oliver
published by Atlantic Monthly Press
© Mary Oliver
Sleeping in the Forest
in Poetry by Mary Oliver
Wild geese, they never ask. They just know and that's why they go.
Don't worry, just follow the wild geese.
Follow that heart...
Mary Oliver - The swan
Did you too see it, drifting, all night, on the black river?
Did you see it in the morning, rising into the silvery air -
An armful of white blossoms,
A perfect commotion of silk and linen as it leaned
into the bondage of its wings; a snowbank, a bank of lilies,
Biting the air with its black beak?
Did you hear it, fluting and whistling
A shrill dark music - like the rain pelting the trees - like a waterfall
Knifing down the black ledges?
And did you see it, finally, just under the clouds -
A white cross Streaming across the sky, its feet
Like black leaves, its wings Like the stretching light of the river?
And did you feel it, in your heart, how it pertained to everything?
And have you too finally figured out what beauty is for?
And have you changed your life?
Mary Oliver in Poetry by Mary Oliver
And have you too finally figured out what a heart is for?
And have you too finally figured out that beauty is in your eyes?
And have you too finally figured out that it was you who took my eyes away and made me saw the whole world?
Don't forget to Keep my eyes. I have two hearts in their place.
Now I know where a heart belongs.
Thanks for the heart.
Because of the heart, don't tell, but I'm going to say: I love you...
sábado, 11 de setembro de 2010
When You Come by Maya Angelou
When you come to me, unbidden,
Beckoning me
To long-ago rooms,
Where memories lie.
Offering me, as to a child, an attic,
Gatherings of days too few.
Baubles of stolen kisses.
Trinkets of borrowed loves.
Trunks of secret words,
I CRY.
Maya Angelou in Poem Hunter
In Celebration by Mark Strand
You sit in a chair, touched by nothing, feeling
the old self become the older self, imagining
only the patience of water, the boredom of stone.
You think that silence is the extra page,
you think that nothing is good or bad, not even
the darkness that fills the house while you sit watching
it happen. You’ve seen it happen before. Your friends
move past the window, their faces soiled with regret.
You want to wave but cannot raise your hand.
You sit in a chair. You turn to the nightshade spreading
a poisonous net around the house. You taste
the honey of absence. It is the same wherever
you are, the same if the voice rots before
the body, or the body rots before the voice.
You know that desire leads only to sorrow, that sorrow
leads to achievement which leads to emptiness.
You know that this is different, that this
is the celebration, the only celebration,
that by giving yourself over to nothing,
you shall be healed. You know there is joy in feeling
your lungs prepare themselves for an ashen future,
so you wait, you stare and you wait, and the dust settles
and the miraculous hours of childhood wander in darkness.
Mark Strand, “In Celebration” from Selected Poems. Copyright
Subscrever:
Mensagens (Atom)