A Flor e a náusea

Preso à minha classe e a algumas roupas,
Vou de branco pela rua cinzenta.
Melancolias, mercadorias espreitam-me.
Devo seguir até o enjôo?
Posso, sem armas, revoltar-me'?
Olhos sujos no relógio da torre:
Não, o tempo não chegou de completa justiça.
O tempo é ainda de fezes, maus poemas, alucinações e espera.
O tempo pobre, o poeta pobrefundem-se no mesmo impasse.
Em vão me tento explicar, os muros são surdos.
Sob a pele das palavras há cifras e códigos.
O sol consola os doentes e não os renova.
As coisas.
Que tristes são as coisas, consideradas sem ênfase.
Vomitar esse tédio sobre a cidade.
Quarenta anos e nenhum problema resolvido, sequer colocado.
Nenhuma carta escrita nem recebida.
Todos os homens voltam para casa.
Estão menos livres mas levam jornaise soletram o mundo, sabendo que o perdem.
Crimes da terra, como perdoá-los?
Tomei parte em muitos, outros escondi.
Alguns achei belos, foram publicados.
Crimes suaves, que ajudam a viver.
Ração diária de erro, distribuída em casa.
Os ferozes padeiros do mal.
Os ferozes leiteiros do mal.
Pôr fogo em tudo, inclusive em mim.
Ao menino de 1918 chamavam anarquista.
Porém meu ódio é o melhor de mim.
Com ele me salvoe dou a poucos uma esperança mínima.
Uma flor nasceu na rua!
Passem de longe, bondes, ônibus, rio de aço do tráfego.
Uma flor ainda desbotadailude a polícia, rompe o asfalto.
Façam completo silêncio, paralisem os negócios,garanto que uma flor nasceu.
Sua cor não se percebe.
Suas pétalas não se abrem.
Seu nome não está nos livros.
É feia.
Mas é realmente uma flor.
Sento-me no chão da capital do país às cinco horas da tarde
e lentamente passo a mão nessa forma insegura.
Do lado das montanhas, nuvens maciças avolumam-se.
Pequenos pontos brancos movem-se no mar, galinhas em pânico.
É feia.
Mas é uma flor.
Furou o asfalto, o tédio, o nojo e o ódio.

Carlos Drummond de Andrade

To a Friend who sent me some Roses

As late I rambled in the happy fields,
What time the skylark shakes the tremulous dew
From his lush clover covert;—when anew
Adventurous knights take up their dinted shields;
I saw the sweetest flower wild nature yields,
A fresh-blown musk-rose; 'twas the first that threw
Its sweets upon the summer: graceful it grew
As is the wand that Queen Titania wields.
And, as I feasted on its fragrancy,
I thought the garden-rose it far excelled;
But when, O Wells! thy roses came to me,
My sense with their deliciousness was spelled:
Soft voices had they, that with tender plea
Whispered of peace, and truth, and friendliness unquelled.

John Keats

Esta ternura

Esta ternura y estas manos libres,
¿a quién darlas bajo el viento ? Tanto arroz
para la zorra, y en medio del llamado
la ansiedad de esa puerta abierta para nadie.

Hicimos pan tan blanco
para bocas ya muertas que aceptaban
solamente una luna de colmillo, el té
frío de la vela la alba.
Tocamos instrumentos para la ciega cólera
de sombras y sombreros olvidados. Nos quedamos
con los presentes ordenados en una mesa inútil,
y fue preciso beber la sidra caliente
en la vergüenza de la medianoche.
Entonces, ¿nadie quiere esto,
nadie?

Julio Córtazar

Old Ireland - walt whitman

Far hence, amid an isle of wondrous beauty,
Crouching over a grave, an ancient sorrowful mo-
ther,
Once a queen—now lean and tattered, seated on the
ground,
Her old white hair drooping dishevel'd round her
head;
At her feet fallen an unused royal harp,
Long silent—she too long silent—mourning her
shrouded hope and heir;
Of all the earth her heart most full of sorrow, be-
cause most full of love.

Yet a word, ancient mother;
You need crouch there no longer on the cold ground;
Oh! you need not sit there, veil'd in your old white
hair, so dishevel'd,
For know you the one you mourn is not in that
grave,
It was an illusion—the heir, the son you love, was not
really dead;
The Lord is not dead—he is risen again, young and
strong, in another country;
Even while you, veiled, wept there by your fallen
harp, by the grave,
What you wept for was translated, pass'd from the
grave,
The winds favor'd and the sea sail'd it,
And now with rosy and new blood, again among the
nations of the earth,
Moves to-day, an armed man, in a new country.

Movimiento - Octavio Paz

Si tú eres la yegua de ámbar
yo soy el camino de sangre
Si tú eres la primer nevada
yo soy el que enciende el brasero del alba
Si tú eres la torre de la noche
yo soy el clavo ardiendo en tu frente
Si tú eres la marea matutina
yo soy el grito del primer pájaro
Si tú eres la cesta de naranjas
yo soy el cuchillo de sol
Si tú eres el altar de piedra
yo soy la mano sacrílega
Si tú eres la tierra acostada
yo soy la caña verde
Si tú eres el salto del viento
yo soy el fuego enterrado
Si tú eres la boca del agua
yo soy la boca del musgo
Si tú eres el bosque de las nubes
yo soy el hacha que las parte
Si tú eres la ciudad profanada
yo soy la lluvia de consagración
Si tú eres la montaña amarilla
yo soy los brazos rojos del liquen
Si tú eres el sol que se levanta
yo soy el camino de sangre

My soul is Dark - Lord Byron

I can never get people to understand that poetry is the expression of excited passion, and that there is no such thing as a life of passion any more than a continuous earthquake, or an eternal fever. Besides, who would ever shave themselves in such a state?

Lord Byron, in a letter to Thomas Moore, 5 July 1821

My Soul is Dark

My soul is dark - Oh! quickly string
The harp I yet can brook to hear;
And let thy gentle fingers fling
Its melting murmurs o'er mine ear.
If in this heart a hope be dear,
That sound shall charm it forth again:
If in these eyes there lurk a tear,
'Twill flow, and cease to burn my brain.

But bid the strain be wild and deep,
Nor let thy notes of joy be first:
I tell thee, minstrel, I must weep,
Or else this heavy heart will burst;
For it hath been by sorrow nursed,
And ached in sleepless silence, long;
And now 'tis doomed to know the worst,
And break at once - or yield to song.

http://englishhistory.net/byron/poetry.html

Dignity - Bob Dylan

Fat man lookin' in a blade of steelThin man lookin' at his last mealHollow man lookin' in a cottonfieldFor dignity
Wise man lookin' in a blade of grassYoung man lookin' in the shadows that passPoor man lookin' through painted glassFor dignity
Somebody got murdered on New Year's EveSomebody said dignity was the first to leaveI went into the city, went into the townWent into the land of the midnight sun
Searchin' high, searchin' lowSearchin' everywhere I knowAskin' the cops wherever I goHave you seen dignity?
Blind man breakin' out of a trancePuts both his hands in the pockets of chanceHopin' to find one circumstanceOf dignity
I went to the wedding of Mary-louShe said
Bob Dylan - lyrics

O Captain! My Captain! by Walt Whitman

O CAPTAIN! my Captain! our fearful trip is done;
The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won;
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring:
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up-for you the flag is flung-for you the bugle trills;
For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths-for you the shores a-crowding;
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head;
It is some dream that on the deck,
You've fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;
The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;
From fearful trip, the victor ship, comes in with object won;
Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells!
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.