domingo, 28 de junho de 2015

E. E. Cummings

since feeling is first
who pays any attention
to the syntax of things
will never wholly kiss you;

wholly to be a fool
while Spring is in the world

my blood approves,
and kisses are better fate
than wisdom 
lady i swear by all flowers. Don't cry
- the best gesture of my brain is less than
your eyelids' flutter which says

we are for each other: then
laugh, leaning back in my arms
for life's not a paragraph

And death i think is no paranthesis

domingo, 21 de junho de 2015

she soon came to realize
that each time she cried
- for a lost lover, so she thought
it had simply been her own soul
acknowledging that
she still wasn't free
for that was a lack of courage
to simply be me
for letting life be
something she somehow could forsee...

domingo, 14 de junho de 2015

PURITY - by Billy Collins

My favourite time to write is in the late afternoon,
weekdays, particularly Wednesdays.
This is how I go about it: 
I take a fresh pot of tea into my study and close the door.
then I remove my clothes and live them in a pile
as if I had melted to death and my legacy consistet of only
a white shirt, a pair of pants and a pot of cold tea. 

Then I remove my flesh and hang it over a chair.
I slide it off my bones like a silken garment.
I do this so that what I write will be pure,
completely rinsed of the carnal,
uncontaminated by the preocupations of the body. 

Finally I remove each of my organs and arrange them
on a small table near the window.
I do not want to hear their ancient rhythms
when I am trying to tap out my own drumbeat.

Now I sit down at the desk, ready to begin.
I am entirely pure: nothing but a skeleton at a typewritter.

I should mention that sometimes I leave my penis on.
I find it difficult to ignore the temptation.
Then I am a skeleton with a penis at a typewriter.
In this condition I write extraordinary love poems,
most of them exploiting the connection between sex and death.

I am concentration itself: I exist in a universe
where there is nothing but sex, death, and typewriting.

After a spell of this I remove my penis too.
Then I am all skull and bones typing into the afternoon.
Just the absolute essentials, no flounces.
Now I write only about death, most classical of themes
in language light as the air between my ribs.

Afterward, I reward myself by going for a drive at sunset.
I replace my organs and slip back into my flesh
and clothes. Then I back the car out of the garage
and speed through woods on winding country roads,
passing stone walls, farmhouses, and frozen pounds,
all perfectly arranged like words in a famous sonnet.