anyone lived in a pretty how town
(with up so floating many bells down)
spring summer autumn winter
he sang his didn't he danced his did

Women and men(both little and small)
cared for anyone not at all
they sowed their isn't they reaped their same
sun moon stars rain

children guessed(but only a few
and down they forgot as up they grew
autumn winter spring summer)
that noone loved him more by more

when by now and tree by leaf
she laughed his joy she cried his grief
bird by snow and stir by still
anyone's any was all to her

someones married their everyones
laughed their cryings and did their dance
(sleep wake hope and then)they
said their nevers they slept their dream

stars rain sun moon
(and only the snow can begin to explain
how children are apt to forget to remember
with up so floating many bells down)

one day anyone died i guess
(and noone stooped to kiss his face)
busy folk buried them side by side
little by little and was by was

all by all and deep by deep
and more by more they dream their sleep
noone and anyone earth by april
wish by spirit and if by yes.

Women and men(both dong and ding)
summer autumn winter spring
reaped their sowing and went their came
sun moon stars rain

E.E. Cummings

Ainda estou no jogo
Correndo perigo
Ainda estou remando
Porocurando o sentido

Embora dentro
Sempre de fora
Fora, mas dentro
Sempre, embora

Fazendo o que faço
Em quase nada me encaixo
Achando o que acho
Talvez encontre meu laço

Função de parecer
Que amarga, traga
O sonho, o ser

Surpresa, vinho, prazer
Nesse momento saber

Ainda estou no jogo
Correndo perigo
Ainda estou remando
Procurando o sentido.

Vothios

O'er the wood's brow,
Pale, the moon stares;
In every bough
Wandering airs
Faintly suspire. . . .

0 heart's-desire!

Two willow-trees
Waver and weep,
One in the breeze,
One in the deep
Glass of the stream. . . .

Dream we our dream!

An infinite
Resignedness
Rains where the white
Mists opalesce
In the moon-shower. . . .

Stay, perfect hour!


Paul Verlaine

Sorriso, diz-me aqui o dicionário, é o acto de sorrir. E sorrir é rir sem fazer ruído e executando contracção muscular da boca e dos olhos.

O sorriso, meus amigos, é muito mais do que estas pobres definições, e eu pasmo ao imaginar o autor do dicionário no acto de escrever o seu verbete, assim a frio, como se nunca tivesse sorrido na vida. Por aqui se vê até que ponto o que as pessoas fazem pode diferir do que dizem. Caio em completo devaneio e ponho-me a sonhar um dicionário que desse precisamente, exactamente, o sentido das palavras e transformasse em fio-de-prumo a rede em que, na prática de todos os dias, elas nos envolvem.

Não há dois sorrisos iguais. Temos o sorriso de troça, o sorriso superior e o seu contrário humilde, o de ternura, o de cepticismo, o amargo e o irónico, o sorriso de esperança, o de condescendência, o deslumbrado, o de embaraço, e (por que não?) o de quem morre. E há muitos mais. Mas nenhum deles é o Sorriso.

O Sorriso (este, com maiúsculas) vem sempre de longe. É a manifestação de uma sabedoria profunda, não tem nada que ver com as contracções musculares e não cabe numa definição de dicionário. Principia por um leve mover de rosto, às vezes hesitante, por um frémito interior que nasce nas mais secretas camadas do ser. Se move músculos é porque não tem outra maneira de exprimir-se. Mas não terá? Não conhecemos nós sorrisos que são rápidos clarões, como esse brilho súbito e inexplicável que soltam os peixes nas águas fundas? Quando a luz do sol passa sobre os campos ao sabor do vento e da nuvem, que foi que na terra se moveu? E contudo era um sorriso.

José Saramago

i am so glad and very
merely my fourth will cure
the laziest self of weary
the hugest sea of shore

so far your nearness reaches
a lucky fifth of you
turns people into eachs
and cowards into grow

our can'ts were born to happen
our mosts have died in more
our twentieth will open
wide a wide open door

we are so both and oneful
night cannot be so sky
sky cannot be so sunful
i am through you so i

e.e. Cummings

Carnal apple, Woman filled, burning moon,
dark smell of seaweed, crush of mud and light,
what secret knowledge is clasped between your pillars?
What primal night does Man touch with his senses?

Ay, Love is a journey through waters and stars,
through suffocating air, sharp tempests of grain:
Love is a war of lightning,
and two bodies ruined by a single sweetness.

Kiss by kiss I cover your tiny infinity,
your margins, your rivers, your diminutive villages,
and a genital fire, transformed by delight,

slips through the narrow channels of blood
to precipitate a nocturnal carnation,
to be, and be nothing but light in the dark.

Pablo Neruda

Cold moons withdraw, refusing to come to terms
with the pilot who dares all heaven's harms
to raid the zone where fate begins,
flings silver gauntlet of his plane at space,
demanding satisfaction; no duel takes place:
the mute air merely thins and thins.

Sky won't be drawn closer: absolute,
it holds aloof, a shrouded parachute
always the same distance from
the falling man who never will abstain
from asking, but inventive, hopes; in vain
challenges the silent dome.

No violation but gives dividends
of slow disaster: the bitten apple ends
the eden of bucolic eve:
understanding breaks through the skull's shell
and like a cuckoo in the nest makes hell
for naive larks who starve and grieve.

What prince has ever seized the shining grail
but that it turned into a milking pail ?
It's likely that each secret sought
will prove to be some common parlor fake:
a craft with paint and powder that can make
cleopatra from a slut.

For most exquisite truths are artifice
framed in disciplines of fire and ice
which conceal incongruous
elements like dirty socks and scraps
of day-old bread and egg-stained plates; perhaps
such sophistry can placate us.

But yet the perverse imp within will probe
beneath the fringes of forbidden robe,
seduced by curiosity,
until in disenchantment our eyes glut
themselves on the clay toes and short clubfoot
which mar the idol's sanctity.

The choice between the mica mystery
of moonlight or the pockmarked face we see
through the scrupulous telescope
is always to be made: innocence
is a fairy-tale; intelligence
hangs itself on its own rope.

Either way we choose, the angry witch
will punish us for saying which is which;
in fatal equilibrium
we poise on perilous poles that freeze us in
a cross of contradiction, racked between
the fact of doubt, the faith of dream.

Sylvia Plath