quarta-feira, 2 de outubro de 2019
terça-feira, 18 de dezembro de 2018
Espera
Deitada na cama olho o teto
É isso que vêem aqueles que me vêem
ao contrário do meu corpo, minha mente e meu coração viajam.
Concebo desejos a serem conquistados
enquanto o pobre corpo,
humilde escravo deste senhores, descansa.
O coração pede a presença de alguém distante
e os olhos, impossibilitados de levar à mente,
a imagem do rosto do distante amado
produzem lágrimas que molham as hastes
de um óculos que jaz inútil ao lado da televisão.
E a noite me preenche de pensamentos infames e insones
o corpo descansa à medida que esse incansavelmente sofredor coração permite
os músculos retesados evidenciam a agonia da solidão
Sim, sentada estou escrevendo agora
este servo nunca falhou com uma obrigação
Mas que posso fazer se este surrado coração cansou de ver o rosto de plástico
Enquanto a mente se entope e enche seus companheiros de teorias
o que este prático coração quer é poesia
e o servo pede uma trégua...
Os ouvidos escutam uma canção que consola
essa saudade que me consome e me assola
Corpo cansado só quer se esticar
olhos úmidos se recusam a chorar
o corpo vencerá e eu continuarei deitada
viajando, pensando emocionada
quanto mais vou ter que esperar
para finalmente poder te encontrar.
sábado, 15 de setembro de 2018
Silêncio e Solidão - Ausências e Presenças
"Você sabe o que eu quero dizer não está escrito nos out-doors
Por mais que a gente grite, o silêncio é sempre maior"
Além dos out-doors, Engenheiros do Hawaii
Só posso falar do meu movimento pendular entre cidade e campo, silêncios e palavras, ausências e presenças. Fases de produção acadêmica, literária, nenhuma, só ter esse tempo da gestação de um texto. Sim, aquele tempo no qual não se escreve uma linha, mas se pensa no assunto da hora que acorda até dormir.
Mas isso é apenas uma rala Introdução. Tive ao mesmo tempo a vontade de me calar neste mundo virtual e no plano físico. Recentemente tenho conversado com pessoas que me despertaram a vontade de retomar, ou iniciar uma fase, onde eu não tenho um planejamento ou melhor, um direcionamento prévio. Apenas avisar que aos poucos vou atualizar do meu modo - notícias, comentários, talvez alguma resenha ou texto que possa ser considerado literário. Mas algo me impeliu fortemente a escrever hoje, e não deixar para o que pode ser um eterno amanhã.
Em breve atualizo e deixo aqui o link dos lugares que for atualizando: twitter, instagram etc.
sexta-feira, 17 de agosto de 2018
Meu Tempo
Seu tempo não é meu tempo
meu tempo é feito de coisas e de dias
meu tempo é feito de coisas fugidias
arredias ao pensamento concreto e abstrato
Meu tempo não é o de fato
o tempo histórico exato
meu tempo é recheado de ilusões
saudades impressões e frustrações
Meu tempo é longelíneo
mas não retilíneo
denso, imenso
Meu tempo faz parte do meu mundo
povoado por figuras estranhas, bizarras
que você teria dificuldade em aceitar
Mas nunca neste meu mundo você irá entrar
você vai vê-la de fora, atrás das grades
enquanto lá dentro realizo todas as minhas vontades
Seu tempo cronológico
não equivale ao seu psicológico
Meu tempo esticado
como massa de macarrão
Sonhos que vão do céu ao chão
Macarrão que não cabe no seu garfo
Esses sonhos eu engarrafo
e entrego a você numa correspondência “just in time”
Bom apetite!!!
sábado, 9 de junho de 2018
Além dos outdoors
Você sabe o que eu quero dizer
Não tá escrito nos outdoors
Por mais que a gente grite
O silêncio é sempre maior
Engenheiros do Hawaii
Não tá escrito nos outdoors
Por mais que a gente grite
O silêncio é sempre maior
Engenheiros do Hawaii
sábado, 28 de abril de 2018
ARCA
O que se esconde neste baú
O que se esconde neste baú
que sonhos, que quimeras
deixei ali e agora
não consigo enxergar?
Como fui capaz de enterrar
meus próprios sonhos e prazeres
Que aventuras escondi aos meus olhos
e de que adiantou isto
se minhas mãos anseiam em tocar
o papel amarelado e amassado no fundo da gaveta
Delícia como comer sobremesa sem jantar
Apenas de sonhos se alimentar
não se deixar congelar pelo coração
e ser atropelada pela multidão
que a priori nos incapacita de irmos
aonde queremos.
Os sonhos,
de dentro do seu túmulo
socam e gritam de dentro do caixão
avisando que estão vivos e querem sair
Meu coração congelado
me fez surda aos anseios sussurrados
mas subitamente vejo minhas mãos ávidas
e, confiando na sabedoria
que elas já adquiriram,
as deixo procurar
Mãos atrevidas tocam todo lugar
abrem portas e gavetas
mãos surdas e ceguetas
que tateiam sem parar
Sábio destino
espera o ápice do momento
mãos de fora que procuram
e mãos de dentro que esmurram
tem breve casamento
Mãos trêmulas tocam os sonhos
sonhos ávidos tocam o coração
libertando aquele ser de sua prisão
que é viver sem ter um alvo a alcançar
um sonho para sonhar
se permitir ser quem quiser
e se impedir de ser levado com a maré
O túmulo escancarado
é a prova de que há algo errado
mãos de sonho escrevem estas palavras
e um coração gelado é convidado a se isolar.
O que se esconde neste baú
que sonhos, que quimeras
deixei ali e agora
não consigo enxergar?
Como fui capaz de enterrar
meus próprios sonhos e prazeres
Que aventuras escondi aos meus olhos
e de que adiantou isto
se minhas mãos anseiam em tocar
o papel amarelado e amassado no fundo da gaveta
Delícia como comer sobremesa sem jantar
Apenas de sonhos se alimentar
não se deixar congelar pelo coração
e ser atropelada pela multidão
que a priori nos incapacita de irmos
aonde queremos.
Os sonhos,
de dentro do seu túmulo
socam e gritam de dentro do caixão
avisando que estão vivos e querem sair
Meu coração congelado
me fez surda aos anseios sussurrados
mas subitamente vejo minhas mãos ávidas
e, confiando na sabedoria
que elas já adquiriram,
as deixo procurar
Mãos atrevidas tocam todo lugar
abrem portas e gavetas
mãos surdas e ceguetas
que tateiam sem parar
Sábio destino
espera o ápice do momento
mãos de fora que procuram
e mãos de dentro que esmurram
tem breve casamento
Mãos trêmulas tocam os sonhos
sonhos ávidos tocam o coração
libertando aquele ser de sua prisão
que é viver sem ter um alvo a alcançar
um sonho para sonhar
se permitir ser quem quiser
e se impedir de ser levado com a maré
O túmulo escancarado
é a prova de que há algo errado
mãos de sonho escrevem estas palavras
e um coração gelado é convidado a se isolar.
sábado, 10 de dezembro de 2016
LOREENA McKENNITT - Nights From The Alhambra - Legendado PT BR
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wRHJMqTiucY
quarta-feira, 16 de novembro de 2016
quarta-feira, 9 de novembro de 2016
quarta-feira, 21 de setembro de 2016
domingo, 9 de novembro de 2014
sexta-feira, 6 de junho de 2014
Discurso de 1854 do tratado de terras
DISCURSO PROFERIDO EM 1854 PELO CACIQUE SEATTLE DURANTE AS NEGOCIAÇÕES DO TRATADO
(Publicado no Seattle Sunday Sta, Seattle, Washington Territory, October 29, 1887)
Yonder sky that has wept tears of compassion upon our fathers for centuries untold, and which to us looks eternal, may change. Today is fair, tomorrow may be overcast with clouds.
My words are like the stars that never set. What Seattle says the Great Chief at Washington can rely upon with as much certainty as our paleface brothers can rely upon the return of the seasons.
The son of the White Chief says his father sends us greetings of friendship and good will. This is kind, for we know he has little need of our friendship in return because his people are many. They are like the grass that covers the vast prairies, while my people are few and resemble the scattering trees of a storm-swept plain.
The Great, and I presume, also good, White Chief sends us word that he wants to buy our lands but is willing to allow us to reserve enough to live on comfortably. This indeed appears generous, for the Red Man no longer has rights that he need respect, and the offer may be wise, also for we are no longer in need of a great country.
There was a time when our people covered the whole land as the waves of a wind-ruffled sea covers its shell-paved floor. But that time has long since passed away with the greatness of tribes now almost forgotten. I will not mourn over our untimely decay, nor reproach my paleface brothers for hastening it, for we, too, may have been somewhat to blame.
When our young men grow angry at some real or imaginary wrong, and disfigure their faces with black paint, their hearts, also, are disfigured and turn black, and then their cruelty is relentless and knows no bounds, and our old men are not able to restrain them.
But let us hope that hostilities between the Red Man and his paleface brothers may never return. We would have everything to lose and nothing to gain.
True it is, that revenge, with our young braves is considered gain, even at the cost of their own lives, but old men who stay at home in times of war, and mothers who have sons to lose, know better.
Our great father Washington, for I presume he is now our father as well as yours, since George has moved his boundaries to the North — our great and good father, I say, sends us word by his son, who, no doubt, is a great chief among his people that if we do as he desires he will protect us.
His brave armies will be to us a bristling wall of strength, and his great ships of war will fill our harbors so that our ancient enemies far to the northward — the Simsiams and Hyas, will no longer frighten our women and old men. Then he will be our father and we will be his children.
But can that ever be? Your God is not our God! Your God loves your people and hates mine! He folds His strong arms lovingly around the white man and leads him as a father leads his infant son — but He has forsaken his red children, He makes your people wax strong every day and soon they will fill all the land; while my people are ebbing away like a fast receding tide that will never flow again. The white man's God cannot love his red children or He would protect them. They seem to be orphans who can look nowhere for help.
How, then, can we become brothers? How can your Father become our Father and bring us prosperity, and awaken in us dreams of returning greatness?
Your God seems to us to be partial. He came to the white man. We never saw Him, never heard His voice. He gave the white man laws, but had no word for His red children whose teeming millions once filled this vast continent as the stars fill the firmament.
No. We are two distinct races, and must remain ever so, there is little in common between us.
The ashes of our ancestors are sacred and their final resting place is hallowed ground, while you wander away from the tombs of your fathers seemingly without regrets.
Your religion was written on tablets of stone by the iron finger of an angry God, lest you might forget it. The Red Man could never remember nor comprehend it.
Our religion is the traditions of our ancestors - the dreams of our old men, given to them by the Great Spirit, and the visions of our Sachems, and is written in the hearts of our people.
Your dead cease to love you and the homes of their nativity as soon as they pass the portals of the tomb. They wander far away beyond the stars, are soon forgotten and never return.
Our dead never forget the beautiful world that gave them being. They still love its winding rivers, its great mountains and its sequestered vales, and they ever yearn in tenderest affection over the lonely-hearted living, and often return to visit and comfort them.
Day and night cannot dwell together. The Red Man has ever fled the approach of the white man, as the changing mist on the mountain side flees before the blazing morning sun.
However, your proposition seems a just one, and I think that my folks will accept it and will retire to the reservation you offer them, and we will dwell apart and in peace, for the words of the Great White Chief seem to be the voice of Nature speaking to my people out of the thick darkness that is fast gathering around them like a dense fog floating inward from a midnight sea.
It matters little where we pass the remainder of our days. They are not many. The Indian's night promises to be dark. No bright star hovers above his horizon. Sad-voiced winds moan in the distance. Some grim Nemesis of our race is on the Red Man's trail, and wherever he goes he will still hear the sure approaching footsteps of the fell destroyer and prepare to meet his doom, as does the wounded doe that hears the approaching footsteps of the hunter.
A few more moons, a few more winters, and not one of all the mighty hosts that once filled this broad land or that now roam in fragmentary bands through these vast solitudes or lived in happy homes, protected by the Great Spirit, will remain to weep over the graves of a people once as powerful and as hopeful as your own!
But why should I repine? Why should I murmur at the fate of my people? Tribes are made up of individuals and are no better than they. Men come and go like the waves of a sea. A tear, a tamanamus, a dirge and they are gone from our longing eyes forever. Even the white man, whose God walked and talked with him as friend to friend, is not exempt from the common destiny. We may be brothers after all. We shall see.
We will ponder your proposition, and when we have decided we will tell you. But should we accept it, I here and now make this first condition, that we will not be denied the privilege, without molestation, of visiting the graves of our ancestors and friends.
Every part of this country is sacred to my people. Every hillside, every valley, every plain and grove has been hallowed by some fond memory or some sad experience of my tribe. Even the rocks, which seem to lie dumb as they swelter in the sun along the silent shore in solemn grandeur thrill with memories of past events connected with the fate of my people, the very dust under your feet responds more lovingly to our footsteps than to yours, because it is the ashes of our ancestors, and our bare feet are conscious of the sympathetic touch, for the soil is rich with the life of our kindred.
The sable braves, and fond mothers, and glad-hearted maidens, and the little children who lived and rejoiced here and whose very names are now forgotten, still love these solitudes and their deep fastnesses at eventide grow shadowy with the presence of dusky spirits.
And when the last Red Man shall have perished from the earth and his memory among white men shall have become a myth, these shores will swarm with the invisible dead of my tribe and when your children's children shall think themselves alone in the field, the store, the shop, upon the highway, or in the silence of the woods, they will not be alone. In all the earth there is no place dedicated to solitude.
At night, when the streets of your cities and villages shall be silent and you think them deserted, they will throng with the returning hosts that once filled and still love this beautiful land.
The white man will never be alone. Let him be just and deal kindly with my people, for the dead are not powerless.
(Publicado no Seattle Sunday Sta, Seattle, Washington Territory, October 29, 1887)
Yonder sky that has wept tears of compassion upon our fathers for centuries untold, and which to us looks eternal, may change. Today is fair, tomorrow may be overcast with clouds.
My words are like the stars that never set. What Seattle says the Great Chief at Washington can rely upon with as much certainty as our paleface brothers can rely upon the return of the seasons.
The son of the White Chief says his father sends us greetings of friendship and good will. This is kind, for we know he has little need of our friendship in return because his people are many. They are like the grass that covers the vast prairies, while my people are few and resemble the scattering trees of a storm-swept plain.
The Great, and I presume, also good, White Chief sends us word that he wants to buy our lands but is willing to allow us to reserve enough to live on comfortably. This indeed appears generous, for the Red Man no longer has rights that he need respect, and the offer may be wise, also for we are no longer in need of a great country.
There was a time when our people covered the whole land as the waves of a wind-ruffled sea covers its shell-paved floor. But that time has long since passed away with the greatness of tribes now almost forgotten. I will not mourn over our untimely decay, nor reproach my paleface brothers for hastening it, for we, too, may have been somewhat to blame.
When our young men grow angry at some real or imaginary wrong, and disfigure their faces with black paint, their hearts, also, are disfigured and turn black, and then their cruelty is relentless and knows no bounds, and our old men are not able to restrain them.
But let us hope that hostilities between the Red Man and his paleface brothers may never return. We would have everything to lose and nothing to gain.
True it is, that revenge, with our young braves is considered gain, even at the cost of their own lives, but old men who stay at home in times of war, and mothers who have sons to lose, know better.
Our great father Washington, for I presume he is now our father as well as yours, since George has moved his boundaries to the North — our great and good father, I say, sends us word by his son, who, no doubt, is a great chief among his people that if we do as he desires he will protect us.
His brave armies will be to us a bristling wall of strength, and his great ships of war will fill our harbors so that our ancient enemies far to the northward — the Simsiams and Hyas, will no longer frighten our women and old men. Then he will be our father and we will be his children.
But can that ever be? Your God is not our God! Your God loves your people and hates mine! He folds His strong arms lovingly around the white man and leads him as a father leads his infant son — but He has forsaken his red children, He makes your people wax strong every day and soon they will fill all the land; while my people are ebbing away like a fast receding tide that will never flow again. The white man's God cannot love his red children or He would protect them. They seem to be orphans who can look nowhere for help.
How, then, can we become brothers? How can your Father become our Father and bring us prosperity, and awaken in us dreams of returning greatness?
Your God seems to us to be partial. He came to the white man. We never saw Him, never heard His voice. He gave the white man laws, but had no word for His red children whose teeming millions once filled this vast continent as the stars fill the firmament.
No. We are two distinct races, and must remain ever so, there is little in common between us.
The ashes of our ancestors are sacred and their final resting place is hallowed ground, while you wander away from the tombs of your fathers seemingly without regrets.
Your religion was written on tablets of stone by the iron finger of an angry God, lest you might forget it. The Red Man could never remember nor comprehend it.
Our religion is the traditions of our ancestors - the dreams of our old men, given to them by the Great Spirit, and the visions of our Sachems, and is written in the hearts of our people.
Your dead cease to love you and the homes of their nativity as soon as they pass the portals of the tomb. They wander far away beyond the stars, are soon forgotten and never return.
Our dead never forget the beautiful world that gave them being. They still love its winding rivers, its great mountains and its sequestered vales, and they ever yearn in tenderest affection over the lonely-hearted living, and often return to visit and comfort them.
Day and night cannot dwell together. The Red Man has ever fled the approach of the white man, as the changing mist on the mountain side flees before the blazing morning sun.
However, your proposition seems a just one, and I think that my folks will accept it and will retire to the reservation you offer them, and we will dwell apart and in peace, for the words of the Great White Chief seem to be the voice of Nature speaking to my people out of the thick darkness that is fast gathering around them like a dense fog floating inward from a midnight sea.
It matters little where we pass the remainder of our days. They are not many. The Indian's night promises to be dark. No bright star hovers above his horizon. Sad-voiced winds moan in the distance. Some grim Nemesis of our race is on the Red Man's trail, and wherever he goes he will still hear the sure approaching footsteps of the fell destroyer and prepare to meet his doom, as does the wounded doe that hears the approaching footsteps of the hunter.
A few more moons, a few more winters, and not one of all the mighty hosts that once filled this broad land or that now roam in fragmentary bands through these vast solitudes or lived in happy homes, protected by the Great Spirit, will remain to weep over the graves of a people once as powerful and as hopeful as your own!
But why should I repine? Why should I murmur at the fate of my people? Tribes are made up of individuals and are no better than they. Men come and go like the waves of a sea. A tear, a tamanamus, a dirge and they are gone from our longing eyes forever. Even the white man, whose God walked and talked with him as friend to friend, is not exempt from the common destiny. We may be brothers after all. We shall see.
We will ponder your proposition, and when we have decided we will tell you. But should we accept it, I here and now make this first condition, that we will not be denied the privilege, without molestation, of visiting the graves of our ancestors and friends.
Every part of this country is sacred to my people. Every hillside, every valley, every plain and grove has been hallowed by some fond memory or some sad experience of my tribe. Even the rocks, which seem to lie dumb as they swelter in the sun along the silent shore in solemn grandeur thrill with memories of past events connected with the fate of my people, the very dust under your feet responds more lovingly to our footsteps than to yours, because it is the ashes of our ancestors, and our bare feet are conscious of the sympathetic touch, for the soil is rich with the life of our kindred.
The sable braves, and fond mothers, and glad-hearted maidens, and the little children who lived and rejoiced here and whose very names are now forgotten, still love these solitudes and their deep fastnesses at eventide grow shadowy with the presence of dusky spirits.
And when the last Red Man shall have perished from the earth and his memory among white men shall have become a myth, these shores will swarm with the invisible dead of my tribe and when your children's children shall think themselves alone in the field, the store, the shop, upon the highway, or in the silence of the woods, they will not be alone. In all the earth there is no place dedicated to solitude.
At night, when the streets of your cities and villages shall be silent and you think them deserted, they will throng with the returning hosts that once filled and still love this beautiful land.
The white man will never be alone. Let him be just and deal kindly with my people, for the dead are not powerless.
quinta-feira, 6 de dezembro de 2012
Ambulante
Ambulante
Malas
Sempre prontas
Arrumadas em cima da cama
Muitos lugares
Idas e vindas
Umas físicas, outras sentimentais
Amigos são fundamentais
E o vazio constante
De quem carrega
A própria alma
Como um ambulante.
Lar?
Pedaço de terra firme com um nome na escritura?
Ou apenas um canto, um ninho um pouso?
O que é estrutura?
Embasamento de vergalhões e concreto
Ou um amor sólido e poucos amigos
Com os quais você pode contar
E convidar para o seu lar?
Vivendo viajando, aeroportos,
Rodoviárias, distâncias
Poucos amigos espalhados por bairros, municípios, cidades, países.
Sempre muita gente conhecida, mas poucos amigos.
Os anos nos mudam?
Vivendo de um canto ao outro,
Procurando o seu local.
O seu lugar.
Ainda que não tenha estrutura
Ainda que não tenha escritura
Ainda que seja um campo de refugiados no deserto,
Cercados de minas terrestres.
Um amor sólido, poucos amigos,
Algum pouco dinheiro ganho
Como fruto do próprio trabalho
Estudando, lecionando, escrevendo
E buscando todo tempo
A Humanidade
dentro de mim.
Mochilas
Malas urbanas customizadas pelo varejo
Malas urbanas onde escondemos nossa alma
Enquanto conseguirmos nos manter em silêncio
Ou sem ter como registrar o que pensamos
Exalamos nossas almas na nossa voz,
nos nossos escritos, nas músicas que compomos.
Almas exaladas que confortam outras almas cansadas
Vozes espalhadas pelas distâncias
das milhagens percorridas na malha urbana
Poetas, pregadores, pensadores artistas
Que exalam suas almas
Que carregam em malas
Como um ambulante.
Escrito em 2007. Livro Anellos.
terça-feira, 18 de março de 2008
something to rely on
I've been seaching for something to rely on
or better someone to rely on
so difficult moments, so hard to
keep quiet, for not disturbing anyone
trying to protect my friends
and knowing that I can't
have this kind of power
I'm not really caring about me,
so many years, I'm so
used to all this stuff
Please Mr. elevator,
tell me in what floor
I am. Please tell me...
Something to rely on,
or better someone to rely on
I've been seaching for something to rely on
so many friends, all around
so many things, all above me
working hard, and never ever stopping
people and work, and I've never seen...
because...
I've been seaching for something to rely on
or better someone to rely on,
someone who will share,
someone to built...
something all kind of people
in the world can always rely on.
music by wasted minds.
Assinar:
Postagens (Atom)