quem sabe faz a hora
nao espera acontecer
Meus pensamentos voam, minhas palavras permanecem ao léu. Palavras sem pensamentos nunca sobem ao céu. W.Shakespeare - A arte deve antes de tudo e em primeiro lugar embelezar a vida. Nietzsche - Teatro, poesia, Música, cinema Literatura, Fotografia, Pintura.
quinta-feira, 8 de março de 2012
quarta-feira, 7 de março de 2012
terça-feira, 6 de março de 2012
2 Flies - Charles Bukowski
The flies are angry bits of life;
why are they so angry?
it seems they want more,
it seems almost as if they
are angry
that they are flies;
it is not my fault;
I sit in the room
with them
and they taunt me
with their agony;
it is as if they were
loose chunks of soul
left out of somewhere;
I try to read a paper
but they will not let me
be;
one seems to go in half-circles
high along the wall,
throwing a miserable sound
upon my head;
the other one, the smaller one
stays near and teases my hand,
saying nothing,
rising, dropping
crawling near;
what god puts these
lost things upon me?
other men suffer dictates of
empire, tragic love…
I suffer
insects…
I wave at the little one
which only seems to revive
his impulse to challenge:
he circles swifter,
nearer, even making
a fly-sound,
and one above
catching a sense of the new
whirling, he too, in excitement,
speeds his flight,
drops down suddenly
in a cuff of noise
and they join
in circling my hand,
strumming the base
of the lampshade
until some man-thing
in me
will take no more
unholiness
and I strike
with the rolled-up-paper -
missing! -
striking,
striking,
they break in discord,
some message lost between them,
and I get the big one
first, and he kicks on his back
flicking his legs
like an angry whore,
and I come down again
with my paper club
and he is a smear
of fly-ugliness;
the little one circles high
now, quiet and swift,
almost invisible;
he does not come near
my hand again;
he is tamed and
inaccessible; I leave
him be, he leaves me
be;
the paper, of course,
is ruined;
something has happened,
something has soiled my
day,
sometimes it does not
take man
or a woman,
only something alive;
I sit and watch
the small one;
we are woven together
in the air
and the living;
it is late
for both of us.
Charles Bukowski
why are they so angry?
it seems they want more,
it seems almost as if they
are angry
that they are flies;
it is not my fault;
I sit in the room
with them
and they taunt me
with their agony;
it is as if they were
loose chunks of soul
left out of somewhere;
I try to read a paper
but they will not let me
be;
one seems to go in half-circles
high along the wall,
throwing a miserable sound
upon my head;
the other one, the smaller one
stays near and teases my hand,
saying nothing,
rising, dropping
crawling near;
what god puts these
lost things upon me?
other men suffer dictates of
empire, tragic love…
I suffer
insects…
I wave at the little one
which only seems to revive
his impulse to challenge:
he circles swifter,
nearer, even making
a fly-sound,
and one above
catching a sense of the new
whirling, he too, in excitement,
speeds his flight,
drops down suddenly
in a cuff of noise
and they join
in circling my hand,
strumming the base
of the lampshade
until some man-thing
in me
will take no more
unholiness
and I strike
with the rolled-up-paper -
missing! -
striking,
striking,
they break in discord,
some message lost between them,
and I get the big one
first, and he kicks on his back
flicking his legs
like an angry whore,
and I come down again
with my paper club
and he is a smear
of fly-ugliness;
the little one circles high
now, quiet and swift,
almost invisible;
he does not come near
my hand again;
he is tamed and
inaccessible; I leave
him be, he leaves me
be;
the paper, of course,
is ruined;
something has happened,
something has soiled my
day,
sometimes it does not
take man
or a woman,
only something alive;
I sit and watch
the small one;
we are woven together
in the air
and the living;
it is late
for both of us.
Charles Bukowski
Anjo Caído: o poeta Charles Bukowski
Segundo o filósofo francês Jean-Paul Sarte, Bukowski foi "o maior poeta da américa". A poesia de Bukowski privilegia a vida marginal ao sonho americano, e não é raro haver em seus poemas histórias e reflexões sobre carros roubados, jovens e tristes prostitutas, relegados de toda a espécie. Bukowski deu espaço para uma porção dos Estados Unidos que o país tanto busca esconder. Bukowski é o porta-voz dos "anjos caídos" da América.
Leia mais: Obviuos
Leia mais: Obviuos
segunda-feira, 5 de março de 2012
Poemas de E.E.Cummings
à atemporalidade e ao tempo igual,
o amor não tem início nem final:
se nada andar nadar nem respirar
o amor serão o vento a terra e o mar
(amantes sofrem? cada divindade
lhes veste a pele com mortal vaidade:
amantes são felizes? seu querer
cria universos ao menor prazer)
amor é a voz por trás do que se cala,
esperança que o medo não cancela:
força tão forte que nem força abala:
verdade antes do sol e além da estrela
– amantes amam? ora, o tolo e o esperto
que preguem céu e inferno, tudo certo
.
Being to timelessness as it’s to time,
love did no more begin than love will end:
where nothing is to breathe to stroll to swim
love is the air the ocean and the land
(do lovers suffer? all divinities
proudly descending put on deathful flesh:
are lovers glad? only their smallest joy’s
a universe emerging from a wish)
love is the voice under all silences,
the hope which has no opposite in fear:
the strength so strong mere force is feebleness:
the truth more first than sun more last than star
– do lovers love? why then to heaven with hell.
whatever sages say and fools, all’s well
E.E.Cummings
Tradução: Gil Pinheiro é jornalista. Trabalhou, entre outras redações, no Estado de S. Paulo, Veja e Placar. Foi também editor de livros e redator publicitário. Dizer que é poeta e tradutor parece redundante, ou o que estaria fazendo aqui? Mas é bom advertir que na lira é bissexto pois digitar é preciso, versejar não é preciso.
o amor não tem início nem final:
se nada andar nadar nem respirar
o amor serão o vento a terra e o mar
(amantes sofrem? cada divindade
lhes veste a pele com mortal vaidade:
amantes são felizes? seu querer
cria universos ao menor prazer)
amor é a voz por trás do que se cala,
esperança que o medo não cancela:
força tão forte que nem força abala:
verdade antes do sol e além da estrela
– amantes amam? ora, o tolo e o esperto
que preguem céu e inferno, tudo certo
.
Being to timelessness as it’s to time,
love did no more begin than love will end:
where nothing is to breathe to stroll to swim
love is the air the ocean and the land
(do lovers suffer? all divinities
proudly descending put on deathful flesh:
are lovers glad? only their smallest joy’s
a universe emerging from a wish)
love is the voice under all silences,
the hope which has no opposite in fear:
the strength so strong mere force is feebleness:
the truth more first than sun more last than star
– do lovers love? why then to heaven with hell.
whatever sages say and fools, all’s well
E.E.Cummings
Tradução: Gil Pinheiro é jornalista. Trabalhou, entre outras redações, no Estado de S. Paulo, Veja e Placar. Foi também editor de livros e redator publicitário. Dizer que é poeta e tradutor parece redundante, ou o que estaria fazendo aqui? Mas é bom advertir que na lira é bissexto pois digitar é preciso, versejar não é preciso.
domingo, 4 de março de 2012
Quote - Lao Tse
Watch your thoughts; they become words.
Watch your words; they become actions.
Watch your actions; they become habits.
Watch your habits; they become character.
Watch your character; it becomes your destiny.
— Lao-Tz
Watch your words; they become actions.
Watch your actions; they become habits.
Watch your habits; they become character.
Watch your character; it becomes your destiny.
— Lao-Tz
Michael Jackson Ben
It's time to look for the chaos, and look for things that inspire, as air bubbles, then they go together to form beauty - one day.
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