Why do you have
To be like that?
Always turning my world
Upside down.

I can never make up my mind
Around you.
You’re intoxicating.

I should hate you
But somehow,
There’s a part deep down
Inside of me telling me I can’t.

The line between love and hate
Is very thin, they say.
I just never thought
It’d be this thin.

Help me.
Help me now,
‘Cause I’m going crazy.

Cátia Ribeiro

Words, Wide Night

Somewhere on the other side of this wide night
And the distance between us, I am thinking of you.
The room is turning slowly away from the moon.

This is pleasurable. Or shall I cross that out and say
It is sad? In one of the tenses I’m singing
An impossible song of desire that you cannot hear.

La lala la. See? I close me eyes and imagine
The dark hills I would have to cross
To reach you. For I am in love with you and this

Is what it is like or what it is like in words.

Carol Ann Duffy

Merda Precisa-se Snhr. Ministro - 1934

Poema dirigido ao ministro da agricultura Dr. Queimado de Sousa, em Fevereiro de 1934.

Porque julgamos digna de registo
a nossa exposição, Sr. Ministro, a erguemos,
a erguemos até vós, humildemente,
em toada uníssona e plangente
em que evitamos o menor deslize
e em que damos razão à nossa crise.

Senhor! Em vão esta Província inteira
desmoita, lavra, atalha a sementeira,
suando até à fralda da camisa.
Falta a matéria orgânica precisa,
na terra que é delgada e sempre fraca!
A matéria, em questão, chama-se CACA.

PRECISAMOS DE MERDA, SR. SOISA,
E NUNCA PRECISÁMOS D’OUTRA COISA!

Se, os membros desse ilustre Ministério,
querem tomar o vosso cargo a sério,...
se é nobre o sentimento que os anima,
mandem cagar-nos toda a gente em cima
dos maninhos torrões de cada herdade.
Mijem-nos também, por caridade.
O Sr. Oliveira Salazar,
quando tiver vontade de cagar,
venha até nós, solícito, calado,
busque um terreno que esteja lavrado,
deite as calças abaixo, com sossego,
ajeite o cu, bem apontado ao rego
e... como Presidente do Conselho,
queira espremer-se, até ficar vermelho!
A Nação confiou-lhe os seus destinos?
Então, comprima, aperte os intestinos.
Se lhe escapar um traque, não se importe!
Quem sabe se, o cheirá-lo, nos dá sorte?!
Quantos porão as sua esperanças
num traque do Ministro das Finanças?
E, quem viver aflito, sem recursos,
Já não distingue um traque, dos discursos.
Nem precisamos de falar, tenho a certeza,
que a nossa maior fonte de riqueza,
desde as grandes herdades às courelas,
provém da merda que juntamos nelas.

PRECISAMOS DE MERDA, SR. SOISA,
E NUNCA PRECISÁMOS D’OUTRA COISA!

Adubos de potassa? Cal? Azote?
Tragam-nos merda pura do bispote!...
e todos os penicos portugueses,
durante, pelo menos, uns seis meses,
sobre o montado, sobre a terra campa,
continuamente, nos despejem trampa!
Terras alentejanas, terras nuas,
desespero dos arados e charruas,
quem os compra, arrenda, ou quem os herda
sente a paixão nostálgica da merda!...

PRECISAMOS DE MERDA, SR. SOISA,
E NUNCA PRECISÁMOS D’OUTRA COISA!

Ah! merda grossa e fina, merda boa,
das inúteis retretes de Lisboa!
Como é triste saber que, todos vós,
andais cagando, sem pensar em nós!
Se querem fomentar a agricultura,
mandem vir muita gente com soltura...
Nós daremos trigo, em larga escala,
pois, até nos faz jeito, a merda rala!
Venham todas as merdas à vontade,
formas naturais ou esquisitas...
e, desde o cagalhão às caganitas,
desde o grande poio, à pequena bosta,
de tudo o que vier, a gente gosta...

PRECISAMOS DE MERDA, SR. SOISA,
E NUNCA PRECISÁMOS D’OUTRA COISA!

por João de Vasconcelos e Sá

Inexistent

The night rules,
The day has long faded,
There’s no one here but you and me.

We own this place.
A rotted smell hangs in the air,
And that is ours too.

So here we are,
Day after day.
Night after night,
Never changing positions,
Never changing emotions,
Never changing our peace of mind.

We’re no more.

Cátia Ribeiro

Burial

Feeling buried under
A pile of blurry thoughts.
Can't find my candle,
My guiding light.

Cátia Ribeiro

Sabes-me sempre a pouco

Sabes-me sempre a pouco.
Deixas nestes lábios um
Doce gosto a saudade,
Sempre um desejo renascido.

Assim me encontro no desespero
Do tempo que não passa
Quando me deixas só,
Dos dias todos iguais,
Do vagaroso arrastar
De um tempo que troça.

Sabes-me sempre a pouco.
O teu toque deixa um
Amargo sabor a lonjura,
À constante espera de mais.

Assim desespero num tempo
Que teima em correr se te tenho,
De um tempo sempre fugaz
Quando enfim te abraço,
Quando te seguro bem perto,
Quando me sabes a tudo.

Ana Cardoso Santos

Castles and Walls

Castles.
They are built for protection
Of someone or something
Against someone.
Or something.


Walls.
There are shameful walls
Throughout our History.
They divide,
They protect,
They shield harmful attacks.


I built up a wall
All around me,
So I don’t have to show people
My true self.
The weak me,
The me in need of love,
Of caring.


Until I find my castle.

Cátia Ribeiro

Spirits of the Dead

Thy soul shall find itself alone
'Mid dark thoughts of the grey tomb-stone;
Not one, of all the crowd, to pry
Into thine hour of secrecy.

Be silent in that solitude,
Which is not loneliness - for then
The spirits of the dead, who stood
In life before thee, are again
In death around thee, and their will
Shall overshadow thee; be still.

The night, though clear, shall frown,
And the stars shall not look down
From their high thrones in the Heaven
With light like hope to mortals given,
But their red orbs, without beam,
To thy weariness shall seem
As a burning and a fever
Which would cling to thee for ever.

Now are thoughts thou shalt not banish,
Now are visions ne'er to vanish;
From thy spirit shall they pass
No more, like dew-drop from the grass.

The breeze, the breath of God, is still,
And the mist upon the hill
Shadowy, shadowy, yet unbroken,
Is a symbol and a token.
How it hangs upon the trees,
A mystery of mysteries!

Edgar Allan Poe

Prayer

Archangel, my angel
lead me tonight
as I step into
this fading light

Archangel, my angel
please hold my hand,
don't leave me alone
on this deceitful land.

Archangel, my angel
take me far from here,
carry me away,
end up this fear.

Archangel, my angel
hold me as I sleep,
say you'll be here
as my sins become too deep.

Archangel, my angel
lead me towards that sound,
grant me only one wish
so that my heart can soon be found.

Archangel, my angel
come here, hold me tight,
my soul won't surrender
though this tired body might.

Archangel, sweet angel
whose song is this I hear?
Maybe is just inside my mind or
Perhaps the chant of the Devil's lonesome tear...

Ana Cardoso Santos

Black Light

A stormy day,
A whirlwind floating in my heart.
Almost drowning
In a loneliness wider than the sea.

A flood of black thoughts
Twirling around in my mind.

I’m just a drop of rain
In a world of problems.
And only a bit of me
Is made of nothing.

A flower withering in the winter,
That’s my state of mind.

I’m reaching the end,
Living on the edge.

Cátia Ribeiro

Examination at the Womb-door

Who owns these scrawny little feet? Death.
Who owns this bristly scorched-looking face? Death.
Who owns these still-working lungs? Death.
Who owns this utility coat of muscles? Death.
Who owns these unspeakable guts? Death.
Who owns these questionable brains? Death.
All this messy blood? Death.
These minimum-efficiency eyes? Death.
This wicked little tongue? Death.
This occasional wakefulness? Death.

Given, stolen, or held pending trial?
Held.

Who owns the whole rainy, stony earth? Death.
Who owns all space? Death.

Who is stronger than hope? Death.
Who is stronger than will? Death.
Stronger than love? Death.
Stronger than life? Death.

But who is stronger than death?
Me, evidently.


Pass, Crow.

Ted Hughes

Jeff Dunham

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1uwOL4rB-go
garanto que vale a pena, o vídeo tem aproximadamente 11 minutos. É um excerto dum programa de tv dos E.U.A, tipo stand up comedy com um ventriloquista.

Dream of a Lost Friend

You were dead, but we met, dreaming,
Before you had died. Your name, twice,
Then you turned, pale, unwell. My dear,
My dear, must this be? A public building
Where I’ve never been, and, on the wall,
An AIDS poster. Your white lips. Help me.

We embraced, standing in a long corridor
which harboured a fierce pain neither of us felt yet.
The words you spoke were frenzied prayers
To Chemistry: or you laughed, a child-man’s laugh,
Innocent, hysterical, out of your skull. It’s only
A dream, I heard myself saying, only a bad dream.

Some of our best friends nurture a virus, an idle,
Charmed, purposeful enemy, and it dreams
They are dead already. In fashionable restaurants,
Over the crudités, the healthy imagine a rime
When all these careful moments will be dreamed
And dreamed again. You look well. How do you feel?

Then, as I slept, you backed away from me, crying
And offering a series of dates for lunch, waving.
I missed your funeral, I said, knowing you couldn’t
hear.
At the end of the corridor, thumbs up, acting.
Where there’s life… awake, alive, for months I think of
You
Almost hopeful in a bad dream where you were long
Dead.

Carol Ann Duffy

I write for...

I write for my own kind
I do not pitch my voice
that every phrase be heard
by those who have no choice:
their quality of mind
must be withdrawn and still,
as moth that answers moth
across a roaring hill.

John Hewitt

Just starting

Olá o meu nome é Ana, aka Nuxa.
Acabei de me juntar ao blog, sou amiga da Katya há 9 anos. Provavelmente não vou fazer tantos posts como ela, nem tantas vezes mas vou dar o meu melhor!
E pronto é apenas uma pequeníssima apresentação.