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Meditações - New Eyes for the New Year

New Eyes for the New Year


The eyes on a face have brought me sadness:

the right eye searching for seams in ripped fishnets;

the left eye lost and wandering the dark; the eye

of the baby god crawling behind a couch in the moist

suburb where we planned our escape from video games

and grilled cheese; the eye of a whale we met in a dream

who spit us out so we could make the 8 o’clock screening

of On Golden Pond; the eye of the clock, blinking

when the oboe wailed like a burning shofar; the eye

inside the eye, curled up—a sprouting lima bean,

remembering the nineteenth century, those rosy drapes;

the eyes of missing finger tips, of sad afternoons

in French cafés in Dayton, Ohio; the eyes on the very

real parrot who sits on the shoulders of a wax actor

dressed as a pirate; the eyes of an actress, pretending

to be my mom; the eyes of my father, sleeping on a train,

dreaming about miniature crashing planes; the eyes

of a swimming pool, looking up or down everyone’s

swimsuits and into their souls; the eyes in love

songs written by mean men; the eyes in the painting

lost in a fire where we tried to save the ancient cat;

the eyes underneath tap shoes clicking like teeth;

the eyes of Fred Astaire, never blinking, even to kiss

in the dark; the eyes of the state of Texas secretly

tattooed on everyone’s ass, and the eyes on the billboard,

ripped and faded from rain like the eyes of the best waitress

on the Upper West Side who knows everyone’s order,

even those of customers she’s never met.

Can you hear  the eyes under my eyes?

They steal other people’s dreams to use them for ad copy.

Here are the eyes of a man who’d be my husband if he

hadn’t married my twin, and there are the eyes of the judge

who divorced them, blue as his tie. I forget the eye color

of the first man I loved—what color was my hat when we cried

in the snow? The whites of everyone’s eyes swirl together

in silent music. Nothing like the closed eyes of a flamenco dancer,

eating a dripping hamburger by the highway. Instead it is

the right eye of a teacher when she touches her student;

the eyes inside my mouth and the eyes outside your mouth;

the eyes of the writer and reader, a broken vase and a whole petal;

the eyes on what you thought of as a cunt and the eyes

on what I thought of as a cock; the small eyes on the open book

and the bigger eyes of the closed book; the eyes I swallow

when we talk, and the eyes that fly above us in sleep.

Joanna Fuhrman

sábado, 30 de dezembro de 2023

Há 100 anos - o Oceano da Eternidade


Acaba de decorrer mais um ano. Passaram-se mais trezentos e sessenta cinco dias e tal período de tempo, uma gora de água no Oceano da Eternidade...

Crónica de André Brun há exactamente 100 anos - 30 de Dezembto de 1923. In Os Meus Domingos (arquivo Fernando Correia de Oliveira)







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Meditações - A New Year's Eve in War Time

A New Year's Eve in War Time


                          I

 

            Phantasmal fears,

            And the flap of the flame,

            And the throb of the clock,

            And a loosened slate,

            And the blind night's drone,

Which tiredly the spectral pines intone!

 

 

                          II

 

            And the blood in my ears

            Strumming always the same,

            And the gable-cock

            With its fitful grate,

            And myself, alone.

 

 

                         III

 

            The twelfth hour nears

            Hand-hid, as in shame;

            I undo the lock,

            And listen, and wait

            For the Young Unknown.

 

 

                         IV

 

            In the dark there careers —

            As if Death astride came

            To numb all with his knock —

            A horse at mad rate

            Over rut and stone.

 

 

                         V

 

            No figure appears,

            No call of my name,

            No sound but 'Tic-toc'

            Without check. Past the gate

            It clatters — is gone.

 

 

                         VI

 

            What rider it bears

            There is none to proclaim;

            And the Old Year has struck,

            And, scarce animate,

            The New makes moan.

 

 

                         VII

 

            Maybe that 'More Tears! —

            More Famine and Flame —

            More Severance and Shock!'

            Is the order from Fate

            That the Rider speeds on

To pale Europe; and tiredly the pines intone.

Thomas Hardy

sexta-feira, 29 de dezembro de 2023

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Meditações - toward the close of December

Slowly, without sun, the day sinks

toward the close of December.

It is minus sixty degrees.

 

Over the sleeping houses a dense

fog rises - smoke from banked fires,

and the snowy breath of an abyss

through which the cold town

is perceptibly falling.

 

As if Death were a voice made visible,

with the power of illumination...

 

Now, in the white shadow

of those streets, ghostly newsboys

make their rounds, delivering

to the homes of those

who have died of the frost

word of the resurrection of Silence.

 

John Haines

quinta-feira, 28 de dezembro de 2023

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Meditações - Na areia que rolou da ampulheta dos annos

Não sei se era visão, filha do Mêdo, 

Se verdadeira apparição nocturna; 

Mas da sombra profunda do arvoredo, 

Que o luar tornava muito mais soturna, 


Vinham surgindo mysteriosamente 

Phantasmas espectraes que eu distinguia 

Através do sudário transparente 

Como o primeiro alvorecer do dia... 


E por deante de mim todos passavam, 

E olhavam-me e choravam... 

De mágoa ou compaixão, não sei dizê-lo; 

Mas tudo o que aos meus olhos evocavam 

Parecia-me um longo pesadelo... 


Eram os Sonhos, as Chimeras mortas 

Na minha morta Phantasia, 

Que do vasto sepulcro abrindo as portas, 

Passavam nessa funebre theoria... 


Projectos, Intenções, Ideias, Planos, 

Illusões d'um passado esquecido e desfeito, 

Na areia que rolou da ampulheta dos annos 

E que um vento de morte espalhou no meu peito.


António Joaquim de Castro Feijó - Sol de Inverno: ultimos versos : 1915

quarta-feira, 27 de dezembro de 2023

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Meditações - conta bem os grãos de areia da tua ampulheta

Traidor! bradou o principe. Mentes! O braço de D. Pedro quebra e rompe todas as portas. Vais ver!... Villão! ajuntou fallando ao villico. Solta as mãos e a boca a essa donzella. Ninguem se mova! Sueiro Lopes, conta bem os grãos de areia da tua ampulheta.

Luiz Augusto Rebello da Silva - Contos e Lendas

terça-feira, 26 de dezembro de 2023

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Meditações - a ampulheta em que vaes pulverizando as horas

Tenho ás vezes sentido o chocar dos teus ossos 

E o vento da tua asa os meus labios roçar; 

Mas da tua presença o rasto de destroços 

Nunca de susto fez meu coração parar. 

Nunca, espanto ou receio, ao meu animo trouxe 

Esse aspecto de horror com que tudo apavoras, 

Nas tuas mãos erguendo a inexoravel Fouce 

E a ampulheta em que vaes pulverizando as horas.

António Joaquim de Castro Feijó - Sol de Inverno: ultimos versos : 1915

segunda-feira, 25 de dezembro de 2023

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Meditações - Christmas time

The snow lies deep upon the ground,

And winter’s brightness all around

Decks bravely out the forest sere,

With jewels of the brave old year.

The coasting crowd upon the hill

With some new spirit seems to thrill;

And all the temple bells achime.

Ring out the glee of Christmas time.

 

In happy homes the brown oak-bough

Vies with the red-gemmed holly now;

And here and there, like pearls, there show

The berries of the mistletoe.

A sprig upon the chandelier

Says to the maidens, “Come not here!”

Even the pauper of the earth

Some kindly gift has cheered to mirth!

 

Within his chamber, dim and cold,

There sits a grasping miser old.

He has no thought save one of gain, -

To grind and gather and grasp and drain.

A peal of bells, a merry shout

Assail his ear: he gazes out

Upon a world to him all gray,

And snarls, “Why, this is Christmas Day!”

 

No, man of ice, - for shame, for shame!

For “Christmas Day” is no mere name.

No, not for you this ringing cheer,

This festal season of the year.

And not for you the chime of bells

From holy temple rolls and swells.

In day and deed he has no part -

Who holds not Christmas in his heart!

 

Paul Laurence Dunbar