Saturday, August 29, 2009

Dois Poemas para Dante e um Terceiro


Um certo jeito de mexer os lábios
um certo jeito de acender os olhos
certo jeito de tecer doçuras.
Olavo tinha razão
e Augusto também:
Inania verba, a idéia esbarra
no molambo da língua paralitica .
Ainda não inventaram palavras para
um certo jeito de recém-nascer.
E este poema se chama
Dante sorri.


Reza a definição:
recém-nascido é o bebê com até 28 dias de vida.
Mente o dicionário, erra a definição, tergiversam os homens.
Ao acordar nesta tarde
Dante é recém-nascido como
na primeira hora.

È neonato anche Dio.


Dominar o léxico, a semântica, a sintaxe, a fonética
não é suficiente
para saber a língua dos homens –
esta língua de acordos tácitos,
de anuências aprendidas sabe-se lá onde.

Desconhecer esta língua empurra-te
para a quina das mesas, para a margem dos acordos,
para o almoço mastigado a sós.
Mas de lá, da franja das tardes
aquele sorriso fugaz que mal chegou aos lábios, aquela
cigarra tardia (ou precoce?) ardendo confusa, aquele
violoncelo a murmurar no terceiro movimento do quarteto.
Tudo isso – sorriso, cigarra, murmúrio –
dos que a falam.

Monday, August 17, 2009

Some Poems

Difícil trabalhar com poesia em sala de aula, mesmo na universidade e em curso de Letras. Magina, então, Ensino Médio. Mas, depois de um Varal de Poesias, creio ter conseguido um resultado pra lá de razoável com meu atual grupo de Video & Literature do CAp neste ano.

These are the poems I read with my students in class. They're supposed to come here, choose one and write a comment about it.
In case you're not a student of mine, feel free to leave your impressions as well.

H.W. Longfellow

The day is done, and the darkness
Falls from the wings of Night,
As a feather is wafted downward
From an eagle in his flight.

I see the lights of the village
Gleam through the rain and the mist,
And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me
That my soul cannot resist:

A feeling of sadness and longing,
That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only
As the mist resembles the rain.

Come, read to me some poem,
Some simple and heartfelt lay,
That shall soothe this restless feeling,
And banish the thoughts of day.

Not from the grand old masters,
Not from the bards sublime,
Whose distant footsteps echo
Through the corridors of Time.

For, like strains of martial music,
Their mighty thoughts suggest
Life's endless toil and endeavor;
And to-night I long for rest.

Read from some humbler poet,
Whose songs gushed from his heart,
As showers from the clouds of summer,
Or tears from the eyelids start;

Who, through long days of labor,
And nights devoid of ease,
Still heard in his soul the music
Of wonderful melodies.

Such songs have power to quiet
The restless pulse of care,
And come like the benediction
That follows after prayer.

Then read from the treasured volume
The poem of thy choice,
And lend to the rhyme of the poet
The beauty of thy voice.

And the night shall be filled with music
And the cares, that infest the day,
Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away.

Edgar Allan Poe

It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of ANNABEL LEE;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea;
But we loved with a love that was more than love-
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsman came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me-
Yes!- that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we-
Of many far wiser than we-
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling- my darling- my life and my bride,
In the sepulchre there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.

Robert Frost

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

William Carlos Williams

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold

1st poem
e. e. cummings

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skillfully, mysteriously) her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the colour of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands

2nd poem
e. e. cummings

i like my body when it is with your
body. It is so quite a new thing.
Muscles better and nerves more.
i like your body. i like what it does,
i like its hows. i like to feel the spine
of your body and its bones, and the trembling
-firm-smooth ness and which i will
again and again and again
kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,
i like,, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz
of your electric fur, and what-is-it comes
over parting flesh....And eyes big love-crumbs,

and possibly i like the thrill

of under me you quite so new

Carl Sandburg

I asked professors who teach the meaning of life to tell what is happiness.
And I went to famous executives who boss the work of thousands of men
They all shook their heads and gave me a smile as though as I was trying to fool with them.
And then one Sunday afternoon I wandered out along the Desplaines river
And I saw a crowd of Hungarians under the trees with their women and children and a keg of [beer and an accordion.

Sylvia Plath

First, are you our sort of a person?
Do you wear
A glass eye, false teeth or a crutch,
A brace or a hook,
Rubber breasts or a rubber crotch,

Stitches to show something's missing? No, no? Then
How can we give you a thing?
Stop crying.
Open your hand.
Empty? Empty. Here is a hand

To fill it and willing
To bring teacups and roll away headaches
And do whatever you tell it.
Will you marry it?
It is guaranteed

To thumb shut your eyes at the end
And dissolve of sorrow.
We make new stock from the salt.
I notice you are stark naked.
How about this suit----

Black and stiff, but not a bad fit.
Will you marry it?
It is waterproof, shatterproof, proof
Against fire and bombs through the roof.
Believe me, they'll bury you in it.

Now your head, excuse me, is empty.
I have the ticket for that.
Come here, sweetie, out of the closet.
Well, what do you think of that ?
Naked as paper to start

But in twenty-five years she'll be silver,
In fifty, gold.
A living doll, everywhere you look.
It can sew, it can cook,
It can talk, talk , talk.

It works, there is nothing wrong with it.
You have a hole, it's a poultice.
You have an eye, it's an image.
My boy, it's your last resort.
Will you marry it, marry it, marry it.

Monday, August 10, 2009

Quero viver mais duzentos anos

Feliz Dia dos Pães!

Danoca veio aqui no domingo. A isca foi a Bohemia Oaken. Disse-lhe que estava com vontade de abrir minha rara garrafa e queria compartihar com ela. Veio correndo na primeira folga. E fez nachos (à moda de Salisbury) e tacos para nós.
E a Ana Beatriz
Que estava com dor de barriga
Esqueceu-se da dor!
Para não ver o nacho passar!
Cantando coisas de amor!
E por que "dia dos pães"? Ora, porque pai que é mãe é pãe! Contei isso pra mãe e ela não achou graça, disse que eu estava me achando, no que tem toda razão. Graças ao Dante, eu estou me achando. E continuo procurando.

Monday, August 03, 2009

Vídeo Exclusivo sobre as Duas Posições acerca do Sono dos Bebês

O vídeo é autoexplicativo. Irei concorrer com ele no Festival do Minuto, na seção Besteirol hors-concours.


Defensora da Posição Silenciosa - Lívia Maria

Defensora da Posição Franciscana - Francisca Maria

Câmera - Igor José

Ajudantes no shshshshshsh - Kátia Maria, Lourdes Maria, Igor José e Isolda Maria.

Argumento - Doravne Suli.

Patrocínio - Casa Lidador; José Sarney.