19.12.23
6.11.23
27.10.23
8.10.23
2.10.23
11.7.23
3.6.23
23.5.23
20.5.23
29.4.23
Edwin Muir
The Horses
Barely a twelvemonth after / The seven days´ war that put the world to sleep, / Late in the evening the strange horses came. / By then we had made our covenant with silence, / But in the first few days it was so still / We listened to our breathing and were afraid. / On the second day / The radios failed; we turned the knobs; no answer. / On the third day a warship passed us, heading north, / Dead bodies piled on the deck. / On the sixth day / A plane plunged over us into the sea. Thereafter / Nothing. The radios dumb; / And still they stand in corners of our kitchens, / And stand, perhaps, turned on, in a millon rooms / All over the world. But now if they should speak, / If on a sudden they should speak again, / If on the stroke of noon a voice should speak, / We would not listen, we would not let it bring / That old bad world that swallowed its children quick / At one great gulp. We would not have it again. / Sometimes we think of the nations lying asleep, / Curled blindly in impenetrable sorrow, / And then the thought confounds us with its strangeness. /The tractors lie about our fields; at evening / They look like dank sea-monsters couched and waiting. / We leave them were they are and let them rust: / “They ´ll moulder away and be like other loam”. / We make our oxen drag our rusty ploughs, / Long laid aside. We have gone back / Far past our fathers’land. / And then, that evening / Late in the summer the strange horses came. / We heard a distant tapping on the road,/ A deepening drumming; it stopped, went on again / And at the corner changed to hollow thunder. / We saw the heads / Like a wild wave charging and were afraid. / We had sold our horses in our fathers’ time / To buy new tractors. Now they were strange to us / As fabulous steeds set on an ancient shield / Or illustrations in a book of knights. / We did not dare go near them. Yet they waited, / Stubborn and shy, as if they have been sent / By and old command to find our whereabouts / And that long-lost archaic companionship. / In the first moment we had never a thought / That they were creatures to be owned and used. / Among them were some half-a-dozen colts / Dropped in some wilderness of the broken world, / Yet new as if they had come from their own Eden. / Since then they have pulled our ploughs and borne our loads, / But that free servitude still can pierce our hearts. / Our life is changed; their coming our beginning.
23.4.23
21.4.23
20.4.23
13.3.23
26.2.23
3.2.23
Alejandra Pizarnik
Anoche bebí demasiado porqué comí con unos idiotas, unos arquitectos -- con sus mujercitas -- que hablaban de aviones y del servicio militar en todos los países del mundo. Eran muchachos de veinticuatro a treinta años. Odio a la gente joven -- seria y estudiosa -- con su porvenir abierto y sus miserables deseos de automóviles y departamentos. Los únicos jóvenes que acepto son los bizcos, los cojos, los poetas, los homosexuales, los viudos inconsolables, los frustrados, los obsesionados, sean condes o mendigos, comunistas o monárquicos, mujeres, hombres, andróginos o castrados.
Diarios
26.1.23
Poema de Herberto Helder
já não tenho tempo para ganhar o amor, a glória ou a Abissínia,
talvez me reste um tiro na cabeça,
e é tão cinematográfico e tão sem número o número dos efeitos especiais,
mas não quero complicar coisas tão simples da terra,
bom seria entrar no sono como num saco maior que o meu tamanho,
e que uns dedos inexplicáveis lhe dessem um nó rude,
e eu de dentro o não pudesse desfazer :
um saco sem qualquer explicação,
que ficasse para ali num sítio ele mesmo sítio bem amarrado
-- não um destino à Rimbaud,
apenas longe, sem barras de ouro, sem amputação de pernas,
esquecido de mim mesmo num saco atado cegamente,
num recanto pela idade fora,
e lá dentro os dias eram à noite bem no fundo,
um saco sem qualquer salvação nos armazéns obscuros
.
Herberto Helder, in Servidões, 2013
16.1.23
Edna St. Vincent Millay
Inland
People that build their houses inland, People that buy a plot of ground Shaped like a house, and build a house there, Far from the sea-board, far from the sound Of water sucking the hollow ledges, Tons of water striking the shore– What do they long for, as I long for One salt smell of the sea once more? People the waves have not awakened, Spanking the boats at the harbor’s head, What do they long for, as I long for,– Starting up in my inland bed, Beating the narrow walls, and finding Neither a window nor a door, Screaming to God for death by drowning– One salt taste of the sea once more?