"i wonder what ants do on rainy days?"
Murakami, H., in Norwegian Wood
no love. no hope. no waiting. no sharing. no support. no trust. no point. no time. no deeper reason. no expectation. no honesty. no predictions. no proud. no flow. no understanding. no words. no emotions. no deal. no adventure. no life. no fun. no music. no future. no dreams. no reality. no nothing.
maré vazia
“she reminded me of the sea;
the way she came dancing towards you,
wild and beautiful,
and just when she was almost close enough to touch
she’d rush away again.”
Millard, G.
{random poetry #58}
I worried a lot. Will the garden grow, will the rivers
flow in the right direction, will the earth turn
as it was taught, and if not how shall
I correct it?
Was I right, was I wrong, will I be forgiven,
can I do better?
Will I ever be able to sing, even the sparrows
can do it and I am, well,
hopeless.
Is my eyesight fading or am I just imagining it,
am I going to get rheumatism,
lockjaw, dementia?
Finally I saw that worrying had come to nothing.
And gave it up. And took my old body
and went out into the morning,
and sang.
Oliver, M. from Swan: Poems and Prose Poems
deixei de estar à espera. passaram 615 autocarros, 20 táxis, 17 luas cheias, 1 lua azul, 7 pedintes, 3 unicórnios, um punhado de viajantes e alguns oportunistas. percebi que não vinhas, percebi que nunca tiveste intenção de vir, percebi que nunca estive à tua espera. não chove, apesar do céu pesado de nuvens cinzentas e ácidas. paira no ar um nevoeiro ténue do fumo dos vários incêndios da alma e da gente, prelúdio de renovação. deixei a paragem. fui caminhar nos campos e beber os últimos raios de sol quente, tímido mas firme. fui correr entre os grãos finos de areia molhados e gélidos, entre as escarpes íngremes e inóspitas, entre a lama e a terra acabada de lavrar. fui porque tenho por hábito viver.
{random poetry #57}
[ se eu morrer novo ]
(...)
Uma vez amei, julguei que me amariam,
Mas não fui amado.
Não fui amado pela única grande razão -
Porque não tinha que ser.
Consolei-me voltando ao sol e à chuva,
E sentando-me outra vez à porta de casa.
Os campos, afinal, não são tão verdes para os que são amados
Como para os que o não são.
Sentir é estar distraído.
Alberto Caeiro, in "Poemas Inconjuntos"
heterónimo de Fernando Pessoa
{random poetry #56}
[ Forgetfulness ]
Forgetfulness is like a song
That, freed from beat and measure, wanders.
Forgetfulness is like a bird whose wings are reconciled,
Outspread and motionless, --
A bird that coasts the wind unwearyingly.
Forgetfulness is rain at night,
Or an old house in a forest, -- or a child.
Forgetfulness is white, -- white as a blasted tree,
And it may stun the sybil into prophecy,
Or bury the Gods.
I can remember much forgetfulness.
Crane, H (1899-1932)
{random poetry #55}
What It Is (Was es ist)
It is nonsense, says reason
It is what it is, says love
It is calamity, says calculation
It is nothing but pain, says fear
It is hopeless, says insight
It is what it is, says love
It is ludicrous, says pride
It is foolish, says caution
It is impossible, says experience
It is what it is, says love
Fried, E. (1921-1988)
{random poetry #54}
"There's a space at the bottom of an exhale,
a little hitch
between taking in and letting out
that's a perfect zero you can go into.
There's a rest point between
the heart's muscle's close and open
- an instant of keenest living
when you're momentarily dead.
You can rest there."
Karr, M. (1955)
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