{ because you... you... i don't know why. }
{random poetry #66}
my friend, my friend, i was born
doing reference work in sin, and born
confessing it. This is what poems are…
Sexton, A., from “With Mercy for the Greedy,” in The Complete Poems (1981)
if there be sorrow
let it be
for things undone
undreamed
unrealized
unattained
to these add one:
love withheld
restrained
Evans, M., in If there be sorrow
7 despertadores, com intervalos de 7 minutos a repetir 7 vezes cada um, é o barulho da rotina que nem te dás ao trabalho de quantificar. acordas tarde com o sabor na boca da pressa de quem não vai para lado nenhum. preparas 250 gr. de cereais misturados no pouco que sobra da gosma da esperança, 3 bagas de goji, 2 nozes e uma colher de chá de sementes de chia. algum alento, alguma energia, pouca fé. sais de casa com a sensação que te esqueceste de algo importante, trancas a porta.
meia hora a pé, 20 minutos de autocarro, 5 segundos de elevador e 50 000 cliques depois continuas a vasculhar na memória o que deixaste perdido nas gavetas, no armário, debaixo da cama ou em cima da mesa, mesmo à vista, à espera de ser encontrado.
vais almoçar. 3 minutos e meio é suficiente para aquecer a comida. carregas no botão e deixas as micro ondas penetrarem nos alimentos e aquecerem as partículas dos poucos nutrientes que sobreviveram à fervura. talvez ficou pendurado no cabide da casa de banho, ou no banco ao pé da lareira. o sinal sonoro da caixa electromagnética, semelhante às campainhas antigas dos correios, assinala que o conduto já está quente, pronto a ser degustado. mas a fome já não é nenhuma.
25 000 cliques, 3 relatórios, 2 briefings, um deadline até ao final do dia e o único pensamento que te deixa nervoso é não saber o que te falta. ficou em cima do sofá ou na banca da cozinha.
corriges os bugs, compilas o projeto e envias em anexo a produtividade.
sorris.
às vezes esqueceste que gostas do que fazes, que cada toque do despertador tem uma melodia diferente, que se repete síncrona e assincronamente criando uma nova melodia todos as manhãs. não te lembras que tens para onde ir, e mais importante que tens onde ficar. não reparas que cada cereal tem uma cor diferente e que o sabor varia conforme o que lhes juntas. não estás atento à brisa ora suave, ora gélida. ficas indiferente às pessoas do autocarro que têm histórias distintas (mas todas elas interessantes) e ao elevador que, por norma, está avariado. não escutas as piadas dos colegas, e nem sempre dás o valor devido ao café da manha que partilhas com os amigos e aos risos contagiantes de quem anda cansado mas não desiste.
não te vem à memória que às vezes a única coisa que te falta é perspectiva.
love your work, work your love.
{random poetry #65}
write it on your heart
that every day is the best day in the year.
he is rich who owns the day, and no one owns the day
who allows it to be invaded with fret and anxiety.
finish every day and be done with it.
you have done what you could.
some blunders and absurdities, no doubt crept in.
forget them as soon as you can, tomorrow is a new day;
begin it well and serenely, with too high a spirit
to be cumbered with your old nonsense.
this new day is too dear,
with its hopes and invitations,
to waste a moment on the yesterdays.
Emerson, R. (1803-1882), in Collected Poems and Translations
morningzzzz
[ 1.7 billion cups of coffee are consumed everyday worldwide ]
[ 1.7 billion cups of coffee are consumed everyday worldwide ]
“i see what i want of people:
their desire to long for anything,
their lateness in getting to work
and their hurry to return to their folk...
and their need to say:
Good Morning...”
“and you became like the coffee,
in the deliciousness,
and the bitterness
and the addiction.”
Darwish, M. (1941-2008)
"Imagination can so easily be trapped by the wish to escape painful facts and unbearable conclusions. The New Age idea that one can wish oneself out of any circumstance, disease, or bad fortune is not only sadly disrespectful toward suffering, it is also, in the end, dangerous if escape replaces awareness.
At the same time, the act of seeing changes those who see. This is perhaps most clear with self-perception. By my perceptions of who I am or what I feel, not only do I re-create my idea of who I am but I also change myself. Perception is not simply a reflection of reality but a powerful element of reality. Anyone who meditates has had this experience: Observing the activities of the mind changes the mind until, bit by bit, observation creates great changes in the soul. And the effect is the same when the act of perception is collective. A change in public perception will change the public. This is why acts of imagination are so important.
Like artistic and literary movements, social movements are driven by imagination. I am not speaking here only of the songs and poems and paintings that have always been part of movements for political and social change, but of the movements themselves, their political ideas and forms of protest. Every important social movement reconfigures the world in the imagination. What was obscure comes forward, lies are revealed, memory shaken, new delineations drawn over the old maps: it is from this new way of seeing the present that hope for the future emerges."
by Griffin, S. in To Love the Marigold, Hope and Imagination
"(...) Older people fall into rigid patterns. Curiosity, risk, exploration are forgotten by them. You have not yet discovered that you have a lot to give, and that the more you give the more riches you will find in yourself. It amazed me that you felt that each time you write a story you gave away one of your dreams and you felt the poorer for it. But then you have not thought that this dream is planted in others, others begin to live it too, it is shared, it is the beginning of friendship and love. (...) You must not fear, hold back, count or be a miser with your thoughts and feelings. (...)"
in The Diary of Anais Nin, Vol. 4: 1944-1947
"i no longer have the energy for meaningless friendships, forced interactions or unnecessary conversations.
if we don’t vibrate on the same frequency there’s just no reason for us to waste our time.
i’d rather have no one and wait for substance than to not feel someone and fake the funk."
Eugenia, J.
lovers under the sea by loui jover
- chuta lá.
- curto-te como o c#r#lho!
- put# que p#riu!... essa merd# é brutal..
- ya... mas é um bocado fod!do.
o amor é fod!do, a falta dele é uma merd#.
“O amor é fodido. Hei-de acreditar sempre nisto.
Onde quer que haja amor, ele acabará, mais tarde ou mais cedo, por ser fodido.
É melhor do que morrer.
Há coisas, como o álcool e os livros, que continuam boas.
A morte é mais aborrecida.
Por que é que fodemos o amor? Porque não resistimos.
É do mal que nos faz. Parece estar mesmo a pedir.
De resto, ninguém suporta viver um amor que não esteja pelo menos parcialmente fodido.
Tem de haver escombros. Tem de haver esperança.
Tem de haver progresso para pior e desejo de regresso a um tempo mais feliz.
Um amor só um bocado fodido pode ser a coisa mais bonita deste mundo”
Cardoso, M., in O Amor é Fodido
{random poetry #64}
i shall forget you presently, my dear,
so make the most of this, your little day,
your little month, your little half a year,
ere i forget, or die, or move away,
and we are done forever; by and by
i shall forget you, as i said, but now,
if you entreat me with your loveliest lie
i will protest you with my favorite vow.
i would indeed that love were longer-lived,
and vows were not so brittle as they are,
but so it is, and nature has contrived
to struggle on without a break thus far,
whether or not we find what we are seeking
is idle, biologically speaking.
Millay, E. (1892-1950), "Sonnet IV" in Shenandoah online (v.63, no. 1, Fall 2013)
{random poetry #63}
(...)
Home is where one starts from. As we grow older
The world becomes stranger, the pattern more complicated
Of dead and living. Not the intense moment
Isolated, with no before and after,
But a lifetime burning in every moment
And not the lifetime of one man only
But of old stones that cannot be deciphered.
There is a time for the evening under starlight,
A time for the evening under lamplight
(The evening with the photograph album).
Love is most nearly itself
When here and now cease to matter.
Old men ought to be explorers
Here or there does not matter
We must be still and still moving
Into another intensity
For a further union, a deeper communion
Through the dark cold and the empty desolation,
The wave cry, the wind cry, the vast waters
Of the petrel and the porpoise. In my end is my beginning.
(...)
Eliot, T. S. in East Coker V
{random life stories #1}
faltou à aula de geografia, orientação não era o seu forte e tinha gosto em andar perdida. sentou-se, discutia-se algo importante entre finos e cigarros. reparou que ele a olhava fixamente, o tempo parou e ficou suspenso por alguns segundos até o relógio marcar novamente o passo apressado da vida. ele sabia que ela ia ser sua, ela sabia que ia ter problemas. e assim foi. marcaram encontro às duas no salão de jogos, ele apareceu às três. deram uma volta pela cidade, muitas voltas à cabeça. trocaram os números e emprestaram o coração um ao outro. passou mais de uma década para terem coragem de devolver o que nunca é pertença de ninguém. foi bom, foi mau, foi o que foi. não tiveram e tão pouco quiseram ter outro amor assim.
“disorderly environments seem to inspire breaking free of tradition,
which can produce fresh insights”
in Can a Messy Desk Make You More Creative?
the power of being messy.
“But I still feel like I lost.
We all have the potential to fall in love a thousand times in our lifetime. It's easy. (...)
But there are certain people you love who do something else; they define how you classify what love is supposed to feel like. These are the most important people in your life, and you'll meet maybe four or five of these people over the span of 80 years. But there's still one more tier to all this; there is always one person you love who becomes that definition. It usually happens retrospectively, but it always happens eventually. This is the person who unknowingly sets the template for what you will always love about other people, even if some of those lovable qualities are self-destructive and unreasonable. You will remember having conversations with this person that never actually happened. You will recall sexual trysts with this person that never technically occurred. This is because the individual who embodies your personal definition of love does not really exist. The person is real, and the feelings are real-but you create the context. And context is everything. The person who defines your understanding of love is not inherently different than anyone else, and they're often just the person you happen to meet first time you really, really want to love someone. But that person still wins. They win, and you lose. Because for the rest of your life, they will control how you feel about everyone else.”
Klosterman, C., in Killing Yourself to Live: 85% of a True Story
{random poetry #62}
the ability to suffer and endure,
that’s nobility, friend.
the ability to suffer and endure,
for an idea, a feeling, a way,
that’s art, my friend.
the ability to suffer and endure
when love fails,
that’s hell, old friend (...)
Bukowski, C. in the creation coffin
"no true relationship of love is for you. Love is about the person you love."
Smith, S., in Marriage Isn’t For You
{random poetry #61}
[ mon semblable ]
i like things my way
every chance i get.
a limit doesn’t exist
when it comes to that.
but please, don’t confuse
what i say with honesty.
isn’t honesty the open yawn
the unimaginable love
more than truth?
anonymous among strangers
i look for those
with hidden wings,
and for scars
that those who once had wings
can’t hide.
though i know it’s unfair,
i reveal myself
one mask at a time.
does this appeal to you,
such slow disclosures,
a lifetime perhaps
of almost knowing one another?
i would hope you, too,
would hold something back,
and that you’d always want
whatever unequal share
you had style enough to get.
altruism is for those
who can’t endure their desires.
there’s a world
as ambiguous as a moan,
a pleasure moan
our earnest neighbors
might think a crime.
it’s where we could live.
i’ll say i love you,
which will lead, of course,
to disappointment,
but those words unsaid
poison every next moment.
i will try to disappoint you
better than anyone ever has.
Dunn, S., in Different Hours
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