(arquivo Fernando Correia de Oliveira)
quarta-feira, 31 de maio de 2023
terça-feira, 30 de maio de 2023
Meditações - A hora no bolso do colete é furtiva
O relógio
Nenhum igual àquele.
A hora no bolso do colete é furtiva,
a hora na parede da sala é calma,
a hora na incidência da luz é silenciosa.
Mas a hora no relógio da Matriz é grave
como a consciência.
E repete. Repete.
Impossível dormir, se não a escuto.
Ficar acordado, sem sua batida.
Existir, se ela emudece.
Cada hora é fixada no ar, na alma,
continua sonhando na surdez.
Onde não há mais ninguém, ela chega e avisa
varando o pedregal da noite.
Som para ser ouvido no longilonge
do tempo da vida.
Imenso
no pulso
este relógio vai comigo.
segunda-feira, 29 de maio de 2023
A. Couto, "cronometrista construtor", 1996, e Relojoaria Serafim, Lisboa, sd
(contribuição de João Vinhas)
Meditações - do tempo que há de vir, das velhas eras
Relógio do Rosário
Era tão claro o dia, mas a treva,
do som baixando, em seu baixar me leva
pelo âmago de tudo, e no mais fundo
decifro o choro pânico do mundo,
que se entrelaça no meu próprio chôro,
e compomos os dois um vasto côro.
Oh dor individual, afrodisíaco
sêlo gravado em plano dionisíaco,
a desdobrar-se, tal um fogo incerto,
em qualquer um mostrando o ser deserto,
dor primeira e geral, esparramada,
nutrindo-se do sal do próprio nada,
convertendo-se, turva e minuciosa,
em mil pequena dor, qual mais raivosa,
prelibando o momento bom de doer,
a invocá-lo, se custa a aparecer,
dor de tudo e de todos, dor sem nome,
ativa mesmo se a memória some,
dor do rei e da roca, dor da cousa
indistinta e universa, onde repousa
tão habitual e rica de pungência
como um fruto maduro, uma vivência,
dor dos bichos, oclusa nos focinhos,
nas caudas titilantes, nos arminhos,
dor do espaço e do caos e das esferas,
do tempo que há de vir, das velhas eras!
Não é pois todo amor alvo divino,
e mais aguda seta que o destino?
Não é motor de tudo e nossa única
fonte de luz, na luz de sua túnica?
O amor elide a face... Ele murmura
algo que foge, e é brisa e fala impura.
O amor não nos explica. E nada basta,
nada é de natureza assim tão casta
que não macule ou perca sua essência
ao contacto furioso da existência.
Nem existir é mais que um exercício
de pesquisar de vida um vago indício,
a provar a nós mesmos que, vivendo,
estamos para doer, estamos doendo.
Mas, na dourada praça do Rosário,
foi-se, no som, a sombra. O columbário
já cinza se concentra, pó de tumbas,
já se permite azul, risco de pombas.
domingo, 28 de maio de 2023
Livro do dia - A Ourivesaria Francesa da Colecção Calouste Gulbenkian
(Biblioteca horológica de Fernando Correia de Oliveira)
Meditações - Quando pararem todos os relógios
No tempo de meu Pai, sob estes galhos,
Como uma vela fúnebre de cera,
Chorei biliões de vezes com a canseira
De inexorabilíssimos trabalhos!
Hoje, esta árvore, de amplos agasalhos,
Guarda, como uma caixa derradeira,
O passado da Flora Brasileira
E a paleontologia dos Carvalhos!
Quando pararem todos os relógios
De minha vida, e a voz dos necrológios
Gritar nos noticiários que eu morri,
Voltando à pátria da homogeneidade,
Abraçada com a própria Eternidade
A minha sombra há de ficar aqui!
sábado, 27 de maio de 2023
Meditações - The Triumph of Time
The Triumph of Time
Before our lives divide for ever,
While time is
with us and hands are free,
(Time, swift to fasten and swift to sever
Hand from hand,
as we stand by the sea)
I will say no word that a man might say
Whose whole life's love goes down in a day;
For this could never have been; and never,
Though the gods and
the years relent, shall be.
Is it worth a tear, is it worth an hour,
To think of
things that are well outworn?
Of fruitless husk and fugitive flower,
The dream
foregone and the deed forborne?
Though joy be done with and grief be vain,
Time shall not sever us wholly in twain;
Earth is not spoilt for a single shower;
But the rain has
ruined the ungrown corn.
It will grow not again, this fruit of my heart,
Smitten with
sunbeams, ruined with rain.
The singing seasons divide and depart,
Winter and
summer depart in twain.
It will grow not again, it is ruined at root,
The bloodlike blossom, the dull red fruit;
Though the heart yet sickens, the lips yet smart,
With sullen
savour of poisonous pain.
I have given no man of my fruit to eat;
I trod the
grapes, I have drunken the wine.
Had you eaten and drunken and found it sweet,
This wild new
growth of the corn and vine,
This wine and bread without lees or leaven,
We had grown as gods, as the gods in heaven,
Souls fair to look upon, goodly to greet,
One splendid
spirit, your soul and mine.
In the change of years, in the coil of things,
In the clamour
and rumour of life to be,
We, drinking love at the furthest springs,
Covered with
love as a covering tree,
We had grown as gods, as the gods above,
Filled from the heart to the lips with love,
Held fast in his hands, clothed warm with his wings,
O love, my love,
had you loved but me!
We had stood as the sure stars stand, and moved
As the moon
moves, loving the world; and seen
Grief collapse as a thing disproved,
Death consume as
a thing unclean.
Twain halves of a perfect heart, made fast
Soul to soul while the years fell past;
Had you loved me once, as you have not loved;
Had the chance
been with us that has not been.
I have put my days and dreams out of mind,
Days that are
over, dreams that are done.
Though we seek life through, we shall surely find
There is none of
them clear to us now, not one.
But clear are these things; the grass and the sand,
Where, sure as the eyes reach, ever at hand,
With lips wide open and face burnt blind,
The strong
sea-daisies feast on the sun.
The low downs lean to the sea; the stream,
One loose thin
pulseless tremulous vein,
Rapid and vivid and dumb as a dream,
Works downward,
sick of the sun and the rain;
No wind is rough with the rank rare flowers;
The sweet sea, mother of loves and hours,
Shudders and shines as the grey winds gleam,
Turning her
smile to a fugitive pain.
Mother of loves that are swift to fade,
Mother of
mutable winds and hours.
A barren mother, a mother-maid,
Cold and clean
as her faint salt flowers.
I would we twain were even as she,
Lost in the night and the light of the sea,
Where faint sounds falter and wan beams wade,
Break, and are
broken, and shed into showers.
The loves and hours of the life of a man,
They are swift
and sad, being born of the sea.
Hours that rejoice and regret for a span,
Born with a
man's breath, mortal as he;
Loves that are lost ere they come to birth,
Weeds of the wave, without fruit upon earth.
I lose what I long for, save what I can,
My love, my
love, and no love for me!
It is not much that a man can save
On the sands of
life, in the straits of time,
Who swims in sight of the great third wave
That never a
swimmer shall cross or climb.
Some waif washed up with the strays and spars
That ebb-tide shows to the shore and the stars;
Weed from the water, grass from a grave,
A broken
blossom, a ruined rhyme.
There will no man do for your sake, I think,
What I would
have done for the least word said.
I had wrung life dry for your lips to drink,
Broken it up for
your daily bread:
Body for body and blood for blood,
As the flow of the full sea risen to flood
That yearns and trembles before it sink,
I had given, and
lain down for you, glad and dead.
Yea, hope at highest and all her fruit,
And time at
fullest and all his dower,
I had given you surely, and life to boot,
Were we once
made one for a single hour.
But now, you are twain, you are cloven apart,
Flesh of his flesh, but heart of my heart;
And deep in one is the bitter root,
And sweet for
one is the lifelong flower.
To have died if you cared I should die for you, clung
To my life if
you bade me, played my part
As it pleased you — these were the thoughts that stung,
The dreams that
smote with a keener dart
Than shafts of love or arrows of death;
These were but as fire is, dust, or breath,
Or poisonous foam on the tender tongue
Of the little
snakes that eat my heart.
I wish we were dead together to-day,
Lost sight of,
hidden away out of sight,
Clasped and clothed in the cloven clay,
Out of the
world's way, out of the light,
Out of the ages of worldly weather,
Forgotten of all men altogether,
As the world's first dead, taken wholly away,
Made one with
death, filled full of the night.
How we should slumber, how we should sleep,
Far in the dark
with the dreams and the dews!
And dreaming, grow to each other, and weep,
Laugh low, live
softly, murmur and muse;
Yea, and it may be, struck through by the dream,
Feel the dust quicken and quiver, and seem
Alive as of old to the lips, and leap
Spirit to spirit
as lovers use.
Sick dreams and sad of a dull delight;
For what shall
it profit when men are dead
To have dreamed, to have loved with the whole soul's might,
To have looked
for day when the day was fled?
Let come what will, there is one thing worth,
To have had fair love in the life upon earth:
To have held love safe till the day grew night,
While skies had
colour and lips were red.
Would I lose you now? would I take you then,
If I lose you now that my heart has need?
And come what may after death to men,
What thing worth
this will the dead years breed?
Lose life, lose all; but at least I know,
O sweet life's love, having loved you so,
Had I reached you on earth, I should lose not again,
In death nor
life, nor in dream or deed.
Yea, I know this well: were you once sealed mine,
Mine in the
blood's beat, mine in the breath,
Mixed into me as honey in wine,
Not time, that
sayeth and gainsayeth,
Nor all strong things had severed us then;
Not wrath of gods, nor wisdom of men,
Nor all things earthly, nor all divine,
Nor joy nor
sorrow, nor life nor death.
I had grown pure as the dawn and the dew,
You had grown
strong as the sun or the sea.
But none shall triumph a whole life through:
For death is
one, and the fates are three.
At the door of life, by the gate of breath,
There are worse things waiting for men than death;
Death could not sever my soul and you,
As these have
severed your soul from me.
You have chosen and clung to the chance they sent you,
Life sweet as
perfume and pure as prayer.
But will it not one day in heaven repent you?
Will they solace
you wholly, the days that were?
Will you lift up your eyes between sadness and bliss,
Meet mine, and see where the great love is,
And tremble and turn and be changed? Content you;
The gate is
strait; I shall not be there.
But you, had you chosen, had you stretched hand,
Had you seen
good such a thing were done,
I too might have stood with the souls that stand
In the sun's
sight, clothed with the light of the sun;
But who now on earth need care how I live?
Have the high gods anything left to give,
Save dust and laurels and gold and sand?
Which gifts are
goodly; but I will none.
O all fair lovers about the world,
There is none of
you, none, that shall comfort me.
My thoughts are as dead things, wrecked and whirled
Round and round
in a gulf of the sea;
And still, through the sound and the straining stream,
Through the coil and chafe, they gleam in a dream,
The bright fine lips so cruelly curled,
And strange
swift eyes where the soul sits free.
Free, without pity, withheld from woe,
Ignorant; fair
as the eyes are fair.
Would I have you change now, change at a blow,
Startled and
stricken, awake and aware?
Yea, if I could, would I have you see
My very love of you filling me,
And know my soul to the quick, as I know
The likeness and look of your throat and
hair?
I shall not change you. Nay, though I might,
Would I change
my sweet one love with a word?
I had rather your hair should change in a night,
Clear now as the
plume of a black bright bird;
Your face fail suddenly, cease, turn grey,
Die as a leaf that dies in a day.
I will keep my soul in a place out of sight,
Far off, where
the pulse of it is not heard.
Far off it walks, in a bleak blown space,
Full of the
sound of the sorrow of years.
I have woven a veil for the weeping face,
Whose lips have
drunken the wine of tears;
I have found a way for the failing feet,
A place for slumber and sorrow to meet;
There is no rumour about the place,
Nor light, nor
any that sees or hears.
I have hidden my soul out of sight, and said
"Let none
take pity upon thee, none
Comfort thy crying: for lo, thou art dead,
Lie still now,
safe out of sight of the sun.
Have I not built thee a grave, and wrought
Thy grave-clothes on thee of grievous thought,
With soft spun verses and tears unshed,
And sweet light
visions of things undone?
"I have given thee garments and balm and myrrh,
And gold, and
beautiful burial things.
But thou, be at peace now, make no stir;
Is not thy grave
as a royal king's?
Fret not thyself though the end were sore;
Sleep, be patient, vex me no more.
Sleep; what hast thou to do with her?
The eyes that
weep, with the mouth that sings?"
Where the dead red leaves of the years lie rotten,
The cold old
crimes and the deeds thrown by,
The misconceived and the misbegotten,
I would find a
sin to do ere I die,
Sure to dissolve and destroy me all through,
That would set you higher in heaven, serve you
And leave you happy, when clean forgotten,
As a dead man
out of mind, am I.
Your lithe hands draw me, your face burns through me,
I am swift to
follow you, keen to see;
But love lacks might to redeem or undo me;
As I have been,
I know I shall surely be;
"What should such fellows as I do?" Nay,
My part were worse if I chose to play;
For the worst is this after all; if they knew me,
Not a soul upon
earth would pity me.
And I play not for pity of these; but you,
If you saw with
your soul what man am I,
You would praise me at least that my soul all through
Clove to you,
loathing the lives that lie;
The souls and lips that are bought and sold,
The smiles of silver and kisses of gold,
The lapdog loves that whine as they chew,
The little
lovers that curse and cry.
There are fairer women, I hear; that may be;
But I, that I
love you and find you fair,
Who are more than fair in my eyes if they be,
Do the high gods
know or the great gods care?
Though the swords in my heart for one were seven,
Should the iron hollow of doubtful heaven,
That knows not itself whether night-time or day be,
Reverberate
words and a foolish prayer?
I will go back to the great sweet mother,
Mother and lover
of men, the sea.
I will go down to her, I and none other,
Close with her,
kiss her and mix her with me;
Cling to her, strive with her, hold her fast:
O fair white mother, in days long past
Born without sister, born without brother,
Set free my soul
as thy soul is free.
O fair green-girdled mother of mine,
Sea, that art
clothed with the sun and the rain,
Thy sweet hard kisses are strong like wine,
Thy large
embraces are keen like pain.
Save me and hide me with all thy waves,
Find me one grave of thy thousand graves,
Those pure cold populous graves of thine
Wrought without
hand in a world without stain.
I shall sleep, and move with the moving ships,
Change as the
winds change, veer in the tide;
My lips will feast on the foam of thy lips,
I shall rise
with thy rising, with thee subside;
Sleep, and not know if she be, if she were,
Filled full with life to the eyes and hair,
As a rose is fulfilled to the roseleaf tips
With splendid
summer and perfume and pride.
This woven raiment of nights and days,
Were it once
cast off and unwound from me,
Naked and glad would I walk in thy ways,
Alive and aware
of thy ways and thee;
Clear of the whole world, hidden at home,
Clothed with the green and crowned with the foam,
A pulse of the life of thy straits and bays,
A vein in the
heart of the streams of the sea.
Fair mother, fed with the lives of men,
Thou art subtle
and cruel of heart, men say.
Thou hast taken, and shalt not render again;
Thou art full of
thy dead, and cold as they.
But death is the worst that comes of thee;
Thou art fed with our dead, O mother, O sea,
But when hast thou fed on our hearts? or when,
Having given us
love, hast thou taken away?
O tender-hearted, O perfect lover,
Thy lips are
bitter, and sweet thine heart.
The hopes that hurt and the dreams that hover,
Shall they not
vanish away and apart?
But thou, thou art sure, thou art older than earth;
Thou art strong for death and fruitful of birth;
Thy depths conceal and thy gulfs discover;
From the first
thou wert; in the end thou art.
And grief shall endure not for ever, I know.
As things that
are not shall these things be;
We shall live through seasons of sun and of snow,
And none be
grievous as this to me.
We shall hear, as one in a trance that hears,
The sound of time, the rhyme of the years;
Wrecked hope and passionate pain will grow
As tender things
of a spring-tide sea.
Sea-fruit that swings in the waves that hiss,
Drowned gold and
purple and royal rings.
And all time past, was it all for this?
Times
unforgotten, and treasures of things?
Swift years of liking and sweet long laughter,
That wist not well of the years thereafter
Till love woke, smitten at heart by a kiss,
With lips that
trembled and trailing wings?
There lived a singer in France of old
By the tideless
dolorous midland sea.
In a land of sand and ruin and gold
There shone one
woman, and none but she.
And finding life for her love's sake fail,
Being fain to see her, he bade set sail,
Touched land, and saw her as life grew cold,
And praised God,
seeing; and so died he.
Died, praising God for his gift and grace:
For she bowed
down to him weeping, and said
"Live;" and her tears were shed on his face
Or ever the life
in his face was shed.
The sharp tears fell through her hair, and stung
Once, and her close lips touched him and clung
Once, and grew one with his lips for a space;
And so drew
back, and the man was dead.
O brother, the gods were good to you.
Sleep, and be
glad while the world endures.
Be well content as the years wear through;
Give thanks for
life, and the loves and lures;
Give thanks for life, O brother, and death,
For the sweet last sound of her feet, her breath,
For gifts she gave you, gracious and few,
Tears and
kisses, that lady of yours.
Rest, and be glad of the gods; but I,
How shall I
praise them, or how take rest?
There is not room under all the sky
For me that know not of worst or best,
Dream or desire of the days before,
Sweet things or bitterness, any more.
Love will not come to me now though I die,
As love came
close to you, breast to breast.
I shall never be friends again with roses;
I shall loathe sweet tunes, where a note
grown strong
Relents and recoils, and climbs and closes,
As a wave of the
sea turned back by song.
There are sounds where the soul's delight takes fire,
Face to face with its own desire;
A delight that rebels, a desire that reposes;
I shall hate
sweet music my whole life long.
The pulse of war and passion of wonder,
The heavens that
murmur, the sounds that shine,
The stars that sing and the loves that thunder,
The music
burning at heart like wine,
An armed archangel whose hands raise up
All senses mixed in the spirit's cup
Till flesh and spirit are molten in sunder —
These things are
over, and no more mine.
These were a part of the playing I heard
Once, ere my
love and my heart were at strife;
Love that sings and hath wings as a bird,
Balm of the
wound and heft of the knife.
Fairer than earth is the sea, and sleep
Than overwatching of eyes that weep,
Now time has done with his one sweet word,
The wine and
leaven of lovely life.
I shall go my ways, tread out my measure,
Fill the days of
my daily breath
With fugitive things not good to treasure,
Do as the world
doth, say as it saith;
But if we had loved each other — O sweet,
Had you felt, lying under the palms of your feet,
The heart of my heart, beating harder with pleasure
To feel you
tread it to dust and death —
Ah, had I not taken my life up and given
All that life
gives and the years let go,
The wine and honey, the balm and leaven,
The dreams
reared high and the hopes brought low?
Come life, come death, not a word be said;
Should I lose you living, and vex you dead?
I never shall tell you on earth; and in heaven,
If I cry to you
then, will you hear or know?
sexta-feira, 26 de maio de 2023
Fizemos a assessoria científica desta exposição de relojoaria em Cascais
Fizemos a assessoria científica desta exposição e escrevemos textos para ela. A partir de amanhã e até 10 de Setembro. De terça a domingo, das 10h00 às 13h00 e das 14h00 às 18h00. Entrada livre ao primeiro domingo do mês. Saiba mais aqui.
Meditações - Diferença de relógios?
Domingo
15.8.1920
Víbora:
Recebi a tua carta má, e, na verdade, não percebo como foi que nos não encontrámos nem ontem nem antes de ontem. Diferença de relógios? Não creio, porque não notei, quer num dia quer noutro, ao chegar à Baixa, que o meu relógio estivesse tão errado.
Escrevo-te só estas linhas para te dizer que estarei amanhã ao meio-dia em ponto no fim da Av. das Cortes. Vais ao escritório da R. da Vitória à 1. Isto deve dar-te tempo. O pior é se vais acompanhada. Em todo o caso esperar-te-ei até às 12 1/4.
Oxalá estejas melhor; mas isso não é desgosto, é viboridade, ou seja maldade.
Sempre e muito teu
Fernando
Estou escrevendo do Café Arcada ao meio-dia e 3 quartos. Por isso escrevo pouco (contra o meu costume) para ver se passo na tua rua não muito longe da uma hora.
15-8-1920
Cartas de Amor. Fernando Pessoa. (Organização, posfácio e
notas de David Mourão Ferreira. Preâmbulo e estabelecimento do texto de Maria
da Graça Queiroz.) Lisboa: Ática, 1978 (3ª ed. 1994). - 33.
quinta-feira, 25 de maio de 2023
.jpg)
Meditações - com o relógio a tictacar ao fundo
Sempre neste mundo haverá a luta, sem decisão nem vitória, entre o que ama o que não há porque existe, e o que ama o que há porque não existe. Sempre, sempre, haverá o abismo entre o que renega o mortal porque é mortal, e o que ama o mortal porque desejaria que ele nunca morresse. Vejo-me aquele que fui na infância, naquele momento em que o meu barco dado se virou no tanque da quinta, e não há filosofias que substituam esse momento, nem razões que me expliquem porque passou. Lembro-o, e vivo; que vida melhor tens tu para me dar?
— Nenhuma, nenhuma porque também eu lembro.
Ah, lembro-me bem! Era na casa velha da quinta antiga e ao serão; depois de coserem e fazerem meia, o chá vinha, e as torradas, e o sono bom que eu haveria de dormir. Dá-me isto outra vez, tal qual era, com o relógio a tictacar ao fundo e guarda para ti os Deuses todos. Que me é um Olimpo que me não sabe às torradas do passado? Que tenho eu com deuses que não têm o meu relógio antigo?
Talvez tudo seja símbolo e sombra, mas não gosto de símbolos e não gosto de sombras. Restitui-me o passado e guarda a verdade. Dá-me outra vez a infância e leva Deus contigo.
— Os teus símbolos! Se eu chorar na noite, como uma criança com medo, nenhum dos teus símbolos me vem afagar no ombro e embalar por ali até que eu durma. Se eu me perder na estrada, tu não tens Virgem Maria melhor que me venha buscar pela mão. Tenho frio das tuas transcendências. Quero um lar no Além. Julgas que alguém tem sede na alma de metafísicas ou de mistérios ou de altas verdades?
— De que é que se tem sede nessa alma?
— De qualquer coisa como tudo que foi a nossa infância. Dos brinquedos mortos, das tias velhas idas. Essas coisas é que são a realidade, embora morressem. Que tem o Inefável comigo?
— Uma coisa... Tiveste algumas tias velhas, e alguma quinta antiga e algum chá e algum relógio?
— Não tive. Gostaria de ter tido. E tu viveste à beira-mar?
— Nunca. Não o sabias?
— Sabia, mas acreditava. Para que descrer do que só se supõe?
Não sabes que este é um diálogo no jardim do Palácio, um interlúdio lunar, uma função em que nos entretemos enquanto as horas passam para os outros?
— Pois sim, mas eu estou a raciocinar...
— Está bem: eu não estou. O raciocínio é a pior espécie de sonho, porque é aquele que nos transporta para o sonho a regularidade da vida que não há, isto é, é duplamente nada.
— Mas o que quer isso dizer?
(Pondo-lhe a mão no outro ombro, e envolvendo-o num abraço.)
— Ó filho, o que quer qualquer coisa dizer?
s.d.
Livro do Desassossego por Bernardo Soares. Vol.II. Fernando
Pessoa. (Recolha e transcrição dos textos de Maria Aliete Galhoz e Teresa
Sobral Cunha. Prefácio e Organização de Jacinto do Prado Coelho.) Lisboa:
Ática, 1982. - 287.
"Fase confessional", segundo António Quadros
(org.) in Livro do Desassossego, por Bernardo Soares, Vol II. Fernando Pessoa.
Mem Martins: Europa-América, 1986.
índice · pesquisa → resultados
Pesquisa por ‘relógio’:
Bernardo Soares: A tragédia principal da minha vida é, como
todas as tragédias,
Álvaro de Campos: Ah, no terrível silêncio do quarto
Álvaro de Campos: É costume dizer-se, desde que alguém
começou a dizê-lo,
Álvaro de Campos: E o som só dentro do relógio acentuado
Álvaro de Campos: INSÓNIA
Fernando Pessoa: Já ouvi doze vezes dar a hora
Álvaro de Campos: Na ampla sala de jantar das tias velhas
Fernando Pessoa: Na noite em que não durmo
Ricardo Reis: Nem relógio parado, nem a falta
Bernardo Soares: No nevoeiro leve da manhã de meia-primavera
Álvaro de Campos: O descalabro a ócio e estrelas...
Fernando Pessoa: O MARINHEIRO
Ricardo Reis: O relógio de sol partido marca
Bernardo Soares: O relógio que está para trás, na casa
deserta,
Fernando Pessoa: O som do relógio
Adolph Moscow: OS RAPAZES DE BARROWBY
Fernando Pessoa: Relógio, morre —
Ricardo Reis: Sem clepsidra ou relógio o tempo escorre
Bernardo Soares: Sempre neste mundo haverá a luta, sem
decisão nem vitória,
Fernando Pessoa: Tenho um relógio parado
Alberto Caeiro: XLIV - Acordo de noite subitamente
Fernando Pessoa: [Carta a Ophélia Queiroz - 15 Ago. 1920]
quarta-feira, 24 de maio de 2023
Meditações - Depois — porque a noite nunca falta
Sem clepsidra ou relógio o tempo escorre
E nós com ele, nada o árbitro escravo
Pode contra o
destino
Nem contra os deuses o mortal desejo
Hoje, quais servos com ausentes deuses,
Na alheia casa, um dia sem o juiz,
Bebamos e
comamos.
Será para amanhã o que aconteça.
Tombai mancebos, o vinho em nobre taça
E o braço nu com que o entornais fique
No lembrando
olhar
Como uma água que parece vinho!
Sim, heróis somos todos amanhã.
Hoje adiemos. E na erguida taça
O roxo vinho
espelhe
Depois — porque a noite nunca falta.
s.d.
Poemas de Ricardo Reis. Fernando Pessoa. (Edição Crítica de
Luiz Fagundes Duarte.) Lisboa: Imprensa Nacional - Casa da Moeda, 1994. - 200.
terça-feira, 23 de maio de 2023
Meditações - relógio morre
Relógio, morre —
Momentos vão.
Nada já ocorre
Ao coração
Senão, senão...
Bem que perdi,
Mal que deixei,
Nada aqui
Montes sem lei
Onde estarei...
Ninguém comigo!
Desejo ou tenho?
Sou o inimigo —
De onde é que venho?
O que é que estranho?
1-3-1930
Poesias Inéditas (1919-1930). Fernando Pessoa. (Nota prévia
de Vitorino Nemésio e notas de Jorge Nemésio.) Lisboa: Ática, 1956 (imp.
1990). - 126.
segunda-feira, 22 de maio de 2023
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