o vento nas árvores

2011-06-20T21:28:00.006+01:00

I celebrate myself, and sing myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.

I loafe and invite my soul,
I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.
My tongue, every atom of my blood, form'd from this soil, this air,
Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their parents the same,

I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin,
Hoping to cease not till death.

Creeds and schools in abeyance,
Retiring back a while sufficed at what they are, but never forgotten,
I harbor for good or bad, I permit to speak at every hazard,
Nature without check with original energy.

[Walt Whitman, Song of Myself]

2010-09-24T23:56:00.003+01:00

I dwell in possibility -
A fairer house than prose -
More numerous of Windows -
Superior - for Doors -

Of Chambers as the Cedars -
Impregnable of Eye -
And for an Everlasting Roof -
The Gambrels of the Sky -

Of visitors - the fairest -
For Occupation - This -
The spreading wide my narrow Hands
To gather Paradise -

[Emily Dickinson, Cem Poemas]

2010-09-20T22:35:00.002+01:00

'Sei que os campos imaginam as suas
próprias rosas.
As pessoas imaginam os seus próprios campos
de rosas. E às vezes estou na frente dos campos
como se morresse;
outras, como se agora somente
eu pudesse acordar'

[Herberto Helder, Ou o poema contínuo]

2010-09-06T21:11:00.003+01:00

sólo podemos hablar com verdad de aquello que nos inspira y apasiona

[Octavio Paz]

2010-07-10T22:41:00.005+01:00

His blood on my arm is warm as a bird
his heart in my hand is heavy as lead
his eyes through my eyes shine brighter than love
O send out the raven ahead of the dove

His life in my mouth is less than a man
his death on my breast is harder than stone
his eyes through my eyes shine brighter than love
O send out the raven ahead of the dove

O send out the raven ahead of the dove
O sing from your chains where you're chained in a cave
your eyes through my eyes shine brighter than love
your blood in my ballad collapses the grave

O break from your branches a green branch of love
after the raven has died for the dove

[Leonard Cohen, Prayer for Messiah]