segunda-feira, 31 de outubro de 2016

Vasco Gato

Sei como os eléctricos
de noite parados
me procuram. Sei que me rege
uma flor

A minha falência
será trespassada por um comboio
e então haverá o cometa,
o belo corpo que nunca

Vasco Gato, IMO.

quarta-feira, 26 de outubro de 2016

Ferreira Gullar


Fora da casa
o dia mantém solidário
seu corpo de chama e de verdura

Dia terrestre,
falam num mesmo nível de fogo
minha boca e a tua

Ferreira Gullar, Toda Poesia 1950-1980

terça-feira, 25 de outubro de 2016

T.S. Eliot: Little Gidding

Little Gidding


Midwinter spring is its own season
Sempiternal though sodden towards sundown,
Suspended in time, between pole and tropic.
When the short day is brightest, with frost and fire,
The brief sun flames the ice, on pond and ditches,
In windless cold that is the heart's heat,
Reflecting in a watery mirror
A glare that is blindness in the early afternoon.
And glow more intense than blaze of branch, or brazier,
Stirs the dumb spirit: no wind, but pentecostal fire
In the dark time of the year. Between melting and freezing
The soul's sap quivers. There is no earth smell
Or smell of living thing. This is the spring time
But not in time's covenant. Now the hedgerow
Is blanched for an hour with transitory blossom
Of snow, a bloom more sudden
Than that of summer, neither budding nor fading,
Not in the scheme of generation.
Where is the summer, the unimaginable Zero summer?
If you came this way,
Taking the route you would be likely to take
From the place you would be likely to come from,
If you came this way in may time, you would find the hedges
White again, in May, with voluptuary sweetness.
It would be the same at the end of the journey,
If you came at night like a broken king,
If you came by day not knowing what you came for,
It would be the same, when you leave the rough road
And turn behind the pig-sty to the dull facade
And the tombstone. And what you thought you came for
Is only a shell, a husk of meaning
From which the purpose breaks only when it is fulfilled
If at all. Either you had no purpose
Or the purpose is beyond the end you figured
And is altered in fulfilment. There are other places
Which also are the world's end, some at the sea jaws,
Or over a dark lake, in a desert or a city--
But this is the nearest, in place and time,
Now and in England.
If you came this way,
Taking any route, starting from anywhere,
At any time or at any season,
It would always be the same: you would have to put off
Sense and notion. You are not here to verify,
Instruct yourself, or inform curiosity
Or carry report. You are here to kneel
Where prayer has been valid. And prayer is more
Than an order of words, the conscious occupation
Of the praying mind, or the sound of the voice praying.
And what the dead had no speech for, when living,
They can tell you, being dead: the communication
Of the dead is tongued with fire beyond the language of the living.
Here, the intersection of the timeless moment
Is England and nowhere. Never and always.


Ash on an old man's sleeve
Is all the ash the burnt roses leave.
Dust in the air suspended
Marks the place where a story ended.
Dust inbreathed was a house-
The walls, the wainscot and the mouse,
The death of hope and despair,
This is the death of air.
There are flood and drouth
Over the eyes and in the mouth,
Dead water and dead sand
Contending for the upper hand.
The parched eviscerate soil
Gapes at the vanity of toil,
Laughs without mirth.
This is the death of earth.
Water and fire succeed
The town, the pasture and the weed.
Water and fire deride
The sacrifice that we denied.
Water and fire shall rot
The marred foundations we forgot,
Of sanctuary and choir.
This is the death of water and fire.
In the uncertain hour before the morning
Near the ending of interminable night
At the recurrent end of the unending
After the dark dove with the flickering tongue
Had passed below the horizon of his homing
While the dead leaves still rattled on like tin
Over the asphalt where no other sound was
Between three districts whence the smoke arose
I met one walking, loitering and hurried
As if blown towards me like the metal leaves
Before the urban dawn wind unresisting.
And as I fixed upon the down-turned face
That pointed scrutiny with which we challenge
The first-met stranger in the waning dusk
I caught the sudden look of some dead master
Whom I had known, forgotten, half recalled
Both one and many; in the brown baked features
The eyes of a familiar compound ghost
Both intimate and unidentifiable.
So I assumed a double part, and cried
And heard another's voice cry: "What! are you here?"
Although we were not. I was still the same,
Knowing myself yet being someone other--
And he a face still forming; yet the words sufficed
To compel the recognition they preceded.
And so, compliant to the common wind,
Too strange to each other for misunderstanding,
In concord at this intersection time
Of meeting nowhere, no before and after,
We trod the pavement in a dead patrol.
I said: "The wonder that I feel is easy,
Yet ease is cause of wonder. Therefore speak:
I may not comprehend, may not remember."
And he: "I am not eager to rehearse
My thoughts and theory which you have forgotten.
These things have served their purpose: let them be.
So with your own, and pray they be forgiven
By others, as I pray you to forgive
Both bad and good. Last season's fruit is eaten
And the fullfed beast shall kick the empty pail.
For last year's words belong to last year's language
And next year's words await another voice.
But, as the passage now presents no hindrance
To the spirit unappeased and peregrine
Between two worlds become much like each other,
So I find words I never thought to speak
In streets I never thought I should revisit
When I left my body on a distant shore.
Since our concern was speech, and speech impelled us
To purify the dialect of the tribe
And urge the mind to aftersight and foresight,
Let me disclose the gifts reserved for age
To set a crown upon your lifetime's effort.
First, the cold fricton of expiring sense
Without enchantment, offering no promise
But bitter tastelessness of shadow fruit
As body and sould begin to fall asunder.
Second, the conscious impotence of rage
At human folly, and the laceration
Of laughter at what ceases to amuse.
And last, the rending pain of re-enactment
Of all that you have done, and been; the shame
Of things ill done and done to others' harm
Which once you took for exercise of virtue.
Then fools' approval stings, and honour stains.
From wrong to wrong the exasperated spirit
Proceeds, unless restored by that refining fire
Where you must move in measure, like a dancer."
The day was breaking. In the disfigured street
He left me, with a kind of valediction,
And faded on the blowing of the horn.


There are three conditions which often look alike
Yet differ completely, flourish in the same hedgerow:
Attachment to self and to things and to persons, detachment
From self and from things and from persons; and, growing between them, indifference
Which resembles the others as death resembles life,
Being between two lives - unflowering, between
The live and the dead nettle. This is the use of memory:
For liberation - not less of love but expanding
Of love beyond desire, and so liberation
From the future as well as the past. Thus, love of a country
Begins as an attachment to our own field of action
And comes to find that action of little importance
Though never indifferent. History may be servitude,
History may be freedom. See, now they vanish,
The faces and places, with the self which, as it could, loved them,
To become renewed, transfigured, in another pattern.
Sin is Behovely, but
All shall be well, and
All manner of thing shall be well.
If I think, again, of this place,
And of people, not wholly commendable,
Of not immediate kin or kindness,
But of some peculiar genius,
All touched by a common genius,
United in the strife which divided them;
If I think of a king at nightfall,
Of three men, and more, on the scaffold
And a few who died forgotten
In other places, here and abroad,
And of one who died blind and quiet,
Why should we celebrate
These dead men more than the dying?
It is not to ring the bell backward
Nor is it an incantation
To summon the spectre of a Rose.
We cannot revive old factions
We cannot restore old policies
Or follow an antique drum.
These men, and those who opposed them
And those whom they opposed
Accept the constitution of silence
And are folded in a single party.
Whatever we inherit from the fortunate
We have taken from the defeated
What they had to leave us - a symbol:
A symbol perfected in death.
And all shall be well and
All manner of thing shall be well
By the purification of the motive
In the ground of our beseeching.


The dove descending breaks the air
With flame of incandescent terror
Of which the tongues declare
The one dischage from sin and error.
The only hope, or else despair
Lies in the choice of pyre of pyre-
To be redeemed from fire by fire.
Who then devised the torment? Love.
Love is the unfamiliar Name
Behind the hands that wove
The intolerable shirt of flame
Which human power cannot remove.
We only live, only suspire
Consumed by either fire or fire.


What we call the beginning is often the end
And to make and end is to make a beginning.
The end is where we start from. And every phrase
And sentence that is right (where every word is at home,
Taking its place to support the others,
The word neither diffident nor ostentatious,
An easy commerce of the old and the new,
The common word exact without vulgarity,
The formal word precise but not pedantic,
The complete consort dancing together)
Every phrase and every sentence is an end and a beginning,
Every poem an epitaph. And any action
Is a step to the block, to the fire, down the sea's throat
Or to an illegible stone: and that is where we start.
We die with the dying:
See, they depart, and we go with them.
We are born with the dead:
See, they return, and bring us with them.
The moment of the rose and the moment of the yew-tree
Are of equal duration. A people without history
Is not redeemed from time, for history is a pattern
Of timeless moments. So, while the light fails
On a winter's afternoon, in a secluded chapel
History is now and England.
With the drawing of this Love and the voice of this Calling
We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.
Through the unknown, unremembered gate
When the last of earth left to discover
Is that which was the beginning;
At the source of the longest river
The voice of the hidden waterfall
And the children in the apple-tree
Not known, because not looked for
But heard, half-heard, in the stillness
Between two waves of the sea.
Quick now, here, now, always--
A condition of complete simplicity
(Costing not less than everything)
And all shall be well and
All manner of thing shall be well
When the tongues of flames are in-folded
Into the crowned knot of fire
And the fire and the rose are one.

T.S. Eliot, Four Quartets. 

terça-feira, 18 de outubro de 2016

O Desenhador de Sóis V.

Há no centro de tudo um tambor potente: a sua respiração é profunda, ela é o centro da vida. O coração de trezentos cavalos bate também no centro de um único homem. Falo do corpo e dos seus caminhos de luz, de uma ânfora, de um barco ao sol; Um rio não acaba nunca, a sua corrente adentra-se numa água maior, não param nunca de se misturarem as águas. A terra quente, a respiração dos homens, abraçam-se no mesmo batimento. Falo do corpo, dos seus pulsos potentes, dos veios azuis, (de uma música do centro) dos cabelos por trás das orelhas, de um riso cheio de criança, dos poetas que viveram antes de nós; A terra quente, a respiração dos homens, abraçam-se no mesmo movimento.

A Vida é um canto do fogo.

O canto é alto e colossal e perfeito como um remador antigo. A respiração da estrela é o centro da estrela, a sua explosão de luz em todas as direções. Esta terra treme e move-se e está viva; e gira à volta de uma esfera maior, e a sua terra é mineral; é a terra de um milagre. E tudo – absolutamente tudo – está vivo e treme. Este é o movimento: a mãe do canto - Falo de uma pulsação segura e quente e húmida, de um centro potente; falo da fluorescente respiração da terra.  Do seu canto de fogo.

Há no centro do poema um farol imenso que nos mostra as linhas das costas, as pequenas línguas de areia que se adentram pelo mar, planícies, golfos, paredões, dedos finíssimos de terra, geografia humana, enfim, (a sua reprodução celeste em tudo). Há no centro do poema um farol que nos permite ver de cima. Ali, onde acaba o verso, onde as ondas se quebram, onde os fogos se cruzam. Ali mesmo, no centro, a vida nasce.  

Nuno Brito

domingo, 16 de outubro de 2016

Ana Cristina Joaquim


Retratação pelas unhas dos
agora em sangue no açougue NUDE
baixo guia pelo meio
formas frias
estranha CINZA
polegares carne crua,
Silêncio exibe pontas
noite do faquir disforme
 – não dorme, dorme –
o medo aflora ROXO
aromas, suores.
Repetida vida treme e
sangra pelos poros. 


Mulher brava os seios doem
sobrancelhas grossas os seios doem, sinalizam.
O chá estragado, essa unidade da dor
a mãe confunde: noite
hoje. Noite hoje de
sovacos e testas
essa unidade sem fim o corpo – o irmão
 o corpo dói.
Incomodava a noite a memória paralela
da dor, essa unidade da dor
 – não incide – grita esse
mote: MATE
morte sem fim.

Os cabelos são brancos e

a pergunta hesitação demora a resposta grande
dispersa em branco mindinho sobre a pauta
fatia fracta das vias
como estão seus seios
sua palavra mãe 
sua forma insone
onde no seu movimento
em que vago traço a existência
dos cacos
fere finos espaços
veias fluxo vago
você interrompe?


se dedo pequeno no
pé puder projetar
se no solo feito háluxsuperpoderoso.
um pote vazio cinzeiro fósforo
medula abismal encolha dos seios interrupção
verbete inóspito
momento a mão
sem desatenção, atenta a mão olha.
osso a osso rarefeita.


acaricia enxofre a mão enorme
espeta insone miúdos fumos

ninguém amacia a
via daninha
dragões ou armaduras passos nem regressos.

ramifica a escuta o cabelo
o cabelo enorme acelera os passos eco.

por aqui ninguém.


(O cordão do entendimento passava
necessariamente pelo
buraco da pia que breve, nas grandes cidades,
urgentes como são, daria no esgoto


Cadaverizar o relógio de
pulso preso pelas cordas do
tempo, sucede.
Cronológico destino azeda,
investe contra o
que lia,
no livro dos cruzados dias,
ásperos ares.
Antecede a rima. O metro
da medida morna
consola apressada
Submete a ira.
Ainda ontem –o ponteiro –
transparente guia.
Vagaroso engano,
o ruído mede o vate
Joga hoje
essa mortalha
grita e principia.


Sob o altar obsceno
esconde o diâmetro do
esquema corporal.
Existência chaminé,
evidência própria, concêntrica.
Adesão móbile das dimensões
biológicas, Cogito sensório,
riso histérico.

No centro do precipício há um pêndulo hipnótico,
o seu rosto a fascinar os dias, movimento irregular,
gama de dedos a multiplicar o ventre.
No contorno do abismo,
distensão das horas máximas ultrapassadas pelo instante.
Permanece ave cintilante quando gaita do futuro,
incursões pelo destino de dois:
meu fundo,
seu dorso,
minha abertura angular.
Nossos traços flores abismais, peixe finíssimo das marés, vasos invencíveis,
nosso ciclo.
Apreciação dos cheiros, seu gesto inunda os meus espaços,
a loucura abocanha a noite, essa massa espessa que demarca o tempo.
Seu tom, seu dom, meu modo medo de espasmo lúbrico.
Hidrografia semeada na permuta: você, meu outro, ouro dos dias,
face incógnita do valor das horas.
Do outro lado de nós,
chumbo receio do falecimento permanece, minha
visão irremediável do que possa haver além,
sua morte anoitece os olhos, anuncia o incolor dos tempos,


as flores entremeiam gestos
anunciam cores agudas e,
revelando todos os segredos, súbitas somem.

suas formas de esconder-se, o esforço de ter de buscá-lo entre palavras.
êxtase perceptivo – seu estado de indeterminâncias, suas arestas irreparáveis, seu contorno amplo, brusco: ruído, cheiro, gosto.
indício elementar e já não está mais ali, fugaz a sua tara,
a desenvoltura do mote pelo o toque, o susto, vento violento,
lisura das escamas escorregam lancinantes.
a proximidade imperiosa acentua o trecho
o olho percorrendo breve.
 a pupila. o traçado circular
o único possível
desvenda o termo de todas as coisas e


Me consignei ao estômago
quando se tratava de fome.
Ao espaço faltavam pernas corrediças,
o anúncio da contagem das horas.
O meu lume.
A noite acende os tumores sem que
se possa saber 
do corpo
o mapa
a musculatura distendida
a ordem de disposição
a mancha verde no canto da perna
medo pulmonar preenchendo cinzeiros.
Dizendo que sim, a cabeça balança ávida
coleta de sangue
400 ml.


Detestamentário de uma tabagista
Quando eu morrer, joga minhas cinzas sobre o meu corpo


Sobre suas palavras em minha boca

Para Juliana Amato, a amiga.

Calada pensou que valeria, valia.
Retirava-se daquela bagunça toda                                                     
 – coisas dela – sobre o que decidira (e sem mais).                            
Diversidade de pessoas, de berros, pareciam animais.
No retorno
naquele dia roxo
nos milhares de nós que, obrigada a desatar,
Vitupérios: vituperava, vituperava.
Todos os anos lhe valeram uma única porrada,
porradíssima na boca do estômago
O amor não vale nada
O amor não presta e fede
O amor é ordinário, vagabundo
O amor é uma coisa barata e nada a ver

O amor é uma balada pop.


inseto indagativo desorganiza a
melodia e
dança, calça suas patas
reúne aves peixes
mangagás insetos
adivinha bafos

jimbo pássaro se abre
jimbo concha se abre
transe erótico das tripas,
magia inseta magia
alada mulher
(ataques fêmeos)
figa chave lesa fresta
brecha, brecha.

Ana Cristina Joaquim; Partilhado a partir deMallarmargens: Revista de Poesia e Arte Contemporânea