青山一道，共担风雨
Like the mountain range that stretches before you and me, let's share the same trials and hardships together.
Jack Ma
Nothing can ever happen
twice.
In consequence, the sorry
fact is
that we arrive here
improvised
and leave without the chance
to practice.
Even if there is no one
dumber,
if you're the planet's
biggest dunce,
you can't repeat the class in
summer:
this course is only offered
once.
No day copies yesterday,
no two nights will teach what
bliss is
in precisely the same way,
with precisely the same
kisses.
One day, perhaps some idle
tongue
mentions your name by accident:
I feel as if a rose were
flung
into the room, all hue and
scent.
The next day, though you're
here with me,
I can't help looking at the
clock:
A rose? A rose? What could
that be?
Is it a flower or a rock?
Why do we treat the fleeting
day
with so much needless fear
and sorrow?
It's in its nature not to
stay:
Today is always gone
tomorrow.
With smiles and kisses, we
prefer
to seek accord beneath our
star,
although we're different (we
concur)
just as two drops of water
are.
Wislawa Szymborska, Nothing twice
Some -
thus not all. Not even the
majority of all but the minority.
Not counting schools, where
one has to,
and the poets themselves,
there might be two people per
thousand.
Like -
but one also likes chicken
soup with noodles,
one likes compliments and the
color blue,
one likes an old scarf,
one likes having the upper
hand,
one likes stroking a dog.
Poetry -
but what is poetry.
Many shaky answers
have been given to this
question.
But I don't know and don't
know and hold on to it
like to a sustaining railing.
Wislawa Szymborska, Some like poetry
On the day the world ends
A bee circles a clover,
A fisherman mends a
glimmering net.
Happy porpoises jump in the
sea,
By the rainspout young
sparrows are playing
And the snake is gold-skinned
as it should always be.
On the day the world ends
Women walk through the fields
under their umbrellas,
A drunkard grows sleepy at
the edge of a lawn,
Vegetable peddlers shout in
the street
And a yellow-sailed boat
comes nearer the island,
The voice of a violin lasts
in the air
And leads into a starry
night.
And those who expected
lightning and thunder
Are disappointed.
And those who expected signs
and archangels' trumps
Do not believe it is
happening now.
As long as the sun and the
moon are above,
As long as the bumblebee
visits a rose,
As long as rosy infants are
born
No one believes it is
happening now.
Only a white-haired old man,
who would be a prophet
Yet is not a prophet, for
he's much too busy,
Repeats while he binds his
tomatoes:
No other end of the world
will there be,
No other end of the world
will there be.
Czesław Miłosz, A song of the end of the world
Autoplay next video
Human reason is beautiful and
invincible.
No bars, no barbed wire, no
pulping of books,
No sentence of banishment can
prevail against it.
It establishes the universal
ideas in language,
And guides our hand so we
write Truth and Justice
With capital letters, lie and
oppression with small.
It puts what should be above
things as they are,
Is an enemy of despair and a
friend of hope.
It does not know Jew from
Greek or slave from master,
Giving us the estate of the
world to manage.
It saves austere and
transparent phrases
From the filthy discord of
tortured words.
It says that everything is
new under the sun,
Opens the congealed fist of
the past.
Beautiful and very young are
Philo-Sophia
And poetry, her ally in the
service of the good.
As late as yesterday Nature
celebrated their birth,
The news was brought to the
mountains by a unicorn and an echo.
Their friendship will be
glorious, their time has no limit.
Their enemies have delivered
themselves to destruction.
Czeslaw Milosz, Incantation
Grass, grass up to my knees!
Grow up to the sky
So that there won't seem to be
Any you or I
So that I will turn all green
And blossom to my bones,
So that my words won't come between
Your freshness and my own.
So that for the two of us
There will be one name:
Either for both of us - grass,
Or both both of us - tuwim.
Julian Tuwin, Grass
While the
Earth is still spinning,
While light
still has not turned black,
God, may
you give to everyone
Whatever
they may lack:
A head to
the man of wisdom,
A horse to
the cowardly,
Money to
him who’s happy...
And don’t
forget about me.
While the
Earth is still spinning —
God
Almighty, you rule!
Let him who
is striving for power
Devour that
power in full,
Give a
break to the generous
However
brief it may be.
Let Cain be
given Contrition...
And don’t
forget about me.
I know:
there’s nothing beyond you,
I trust in
your being wise,
Same way as
the perished soldier
Believes he
is in paradise,
Same way
each ear is trustful
Of your
quiet words being true,
Same way we
are all believing,
Though we
know not what we do.
God my Lord
in Heaven,
My dear
that has green eyes!
While the
Earth is still spinning,
Much so to
its own surprise,
While it
still has in storage
Some fire
and vivacity,
Give
everyone just a little...
And don’t
forget about me.
Bulat Okudzhava, The prayer of Francois Villon
HAD I the
heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought
with golden and silver light,
The blue
and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night
and light and the half-light,
I would
spread the cloths under your feet:
But I,
being poor, have only my dreams;
I have
spread my dreams under your feet
Tread
softly because you tread on my dreams.
W. B. Yeats, He wishes for the cloths of heaven
TWO roads
diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I
could not travel both
And be one
traveler, long I stood
And looked
down one as far as I could
To where it
bent in the undergrowth;
Then took
the other, as just as fair,
And having
perhaps the better claim
Because it
was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as
for that, the passing there
Had worn
them really about the same,
And both
that morning equally lay
In leaves
no step had trodden black.
Oh, I
marked the first for another day!
Yet knowing
how way leads on to way
I doubted
if I should ever come back.
I shall be
telling this with a sigh
Somewhere
ages and ages hence:
Two roads
diverged in a wood, and I,
I took the
one less traveled by,
And that
has made all the difference.
Robert Frost, The road not taken
in time of
daffodils(who know
the goal of
living is to grow)
forgetting
why, remember how
in time of
lilacs who proclaim
the aim of
waking is to dream,
remember
so(forgetting seem)
in time of roses(who
amaze
our now and
here with paradise)
forgetting
if, remember yes
in time of
all sweet things beyond
whatever
mind may comprehend,
remember
seek(forgetting find)
and in a
mystery to be
(when time
from time shall set us free)
forgetting
me, remember me
E.E. Cummings, In time of daffodils
SWEET and
low, sweet and low,
Wind of the
western sea,
Low, low,
breathe and blow,
Wind of the
western sea!
Over the
rolling waters go,
Come from
the dying moon, and blow,
Blow him
again to me;
While my
little one, while my pretty one sleeps. -
Sleep and
rest, sleep and rest,
Father will
come to thee soon;
Rest, rest,
on mother's breast,
Father will
come to thee soon;
Father will
come to his babe in the next,
Silver
sails all out of the west
Under the
silver moon;
Sleep, my
little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep.
Alfred Tennyson, Sweet and low, sweet and low
BY June our
brook’s run out of song and speed.
Sought for
much after that, it will be found
Either to
have gone groping underground
(And taken
with it all the Hyla breed
That
shouted in the mist a month ago,
Like ghost
of sleigh-bells in a ghost of snow)—
Or
flourished and come up in jewel-weed,
Weak
foliage that is blown upon and bent
Even
against the way its waters went.
Its bed is
left a faded paper sheet
Of dead
leaves stuck together by the heat—
A brook to
none but who remember long.
This as it
will be seen is other far
Than with
brooks taken otherwhere in song.
We love the
things we love for what they are.
Robert Frost, Hyla Brook
When the
spent sun throws up its rays on cloud
And goes
down burning into the gulf below,
No voice in
nature is heard to cry aloud
At what has
happened. Birds, at least must know
It is the
change to darkness in the sky.
Murmuring
something quiet in her breast,
One bird
begins to close a faded eye;
Or
overtaken too far from his nest,
Hurrying
low above the grove, some waif
Swoops just
in time to his remembered tree.
At most he
thinks or twitters softly, 'Safe!
Now let the
night be dark for all of me.
Let the
night be too dark for me to see
Into the
future. Let what will be, be.'
Robert Frost, Acceptance
Seated
here attached to the present of this royal placeWe are
a singing joy , you and I.
Two
in form two in figure , two to the outward eye
We're
one in one, you and I .
The
grove's verdant green picked in birdsong
Treat
us kindly with a trace of eternity
As
we enter the garden, you and I.
The
unnumbered eyes of the stars gaze on us
We
turn on them the moon's face, you and I
Set
apart from the dross of empty words , you and I.
We
are, you in I and In you, the envy of gorgeous.
Birds
of paradise when we melt in secret laughter,
You
and I , the mystery is you and I as we sit
Together
in this royal place, yet in this cusp
Of
being in this shade of common bliss we are one
You
and I
You
and I
We
are at once in Iraq and Khorasan
You
and I.
Roomi
When blizzards utter beastly roars,
Disgruntled and relentless,
Do not attempt to shut your doors,
Unlock your dwelling's entrance.
If for a long and distant roam
You're summoned by an omen,
Do not forget to leave your home
Unlocked, and doors wide open.
And on the night when you depart,
Decide and prove your sternness:
Mix flame of pine with flame of heart
Inside your dwelling's furnace.
Let every wall give warmth at night,
And bench give up its coarseness...
A door shut tight ain't worth a mite,
A lock is just as worthless!Bulat Okudzhava, The song of the open door
Love letter in a viral pandemic
Bagpipes played in Scotland
Tenors sing from verandas in Italy
The dead will not hear them
And the living want to mourn their dead in silence
Who do they want to cheer?
The children?
But children are also dying
In my circumstance
I may die
Wondering if I will ever see you again
But before I die
I want you to know
How much I care for you
How much I worry about you
How much I remember shared and cherished
moments
Moments then
Eternities now
Poetry
Laughter
The sea
sunsets
The feather that the gull took to our table
Breakfast
Gold cuff links
The magnolia
The hospital
Socks pijama and other thoughtful things
All moments then
Eternities now
As I may die and you must die
in your living the hope of my lasting
Maria de Sousa, April 3, 2020
Sometimes
if you move carefully
through the forest
breathing
like the ones
in the old stories
who could cross
a shimmering bed of dry leaves
without a sound,
you come
to a place
whose only task
is to trouble you
with tiny
but frightening requests
conceived out of nowhere
but in this place
beginning to lead everywhere.
Requests to stop what
you are doing right now,
and
to stop what you
are becoming
while you do it,
questions
that can make
or unmake
a life,
questions
that have patiently
waited for you,
questions
that have no right
to go away.
David Whyte, 2017, SometimesCountry of April is the site of the poem.
Does not stay on the terraces of longing
does not stay on the long lands. It's right here
so close that it seems far away.It has pine trees and sea has rivers
there's a lot of people and a lot of loneliness
feast days that are sad days inside out
it's street and dream is painful intimacy.
País de Abril é o sítio do poema.
Não fica nos terraços da saudade
não fica nas longas terras. Fica exactamente aqui
tão perto que parece longe.
Tem pinheiros e mar tem rios
tem muita gente e muita solidão
dias de festa que são dias tristes às avessas
é rua e sonho é dolorosa intimidade.
Manuel Alegre
Here’s my hat.
It holds my head,
the thoughts I’ve had
and the things I’ve read.
It keeps out the wind.
It keeps off the rain.
It hugs my hair
and warms my brain.
There’s me below it,
the sky above it.
It’s my lid.
And I love it.
Tony Mitton
To pray you open your whole self
To sky, to earth, to sun, to moon
To one whole voice that is you.
And know there is more
That you can't see, can't hear:
Can't know except in moments
Steadily growing, and in languages
That aren't always sound but other
Circles of motion.
Like eagle that sunday morning
Over Salt River. Circled in blue sky
In wind, swept our hearts clean
With sacred wings.
We see you, see ourselves and know
That we must take the utmost care
And kindness in all things.
Breathe in, knowing we are made of
All this, and breathe, knowing
We are truly blessed because we
Were born and die soon within a
True circle of motion,
Like eagle rounding out the morning
Inside us.
We pray that it will be done
In beauty.
In beauty.
Joy Harjo, Mad Love and War, 1990
I am nothing I shall never be anything.
I cannot even wish to be anything.
Apart from this, I have within me all the dreams of the world.
Não sou nada.Nunca serei nada.
Não posso querer ser nada.
À parte isso, tenho em mim todos os sonhos do mundo.
Álvaro de Campos (Fernando Pessoa)
At the gates of the tavern I saw the angels knock Kneaded this clay we call human, and made it talk.
The residents of the Celestial Court and the heavenly bloc
Drank from the Wine of Love, with me, upon our common walk.
The earth and the skies could not keep this trust of the clock
Yet the poor insane me was stuck with such tough luck.
People find good reason for the wars in which they are stuck
Since Truth they cannot see, to fantasies they would flock.
In our midst, thank God, the dogs of war are put in chain and lock.
The angels gratefully drink, gracefully dance, from block to block.
Fire is not a flickering glow that a candle flame would mock
Fire is the flame of a heap of moths that lightning has just struck.
None like Hafiz, the mask of deceitful intellect can pluck
Till the hair of Bride of Verses was brushed lock after lock.
Hafiz Ghazal, 184
As every blossom fades
and all youth sinks into old age,
so every life’s design, each flower of wisdom,
attains its prime and cannot last forever.
The heart must submit itself courageously
to life’s call without a hint of grief,
A magic dwells in each beginning,
protecting us, telling us how to live.
High purposed we shall traverse realm on realm,
cleaving to none as to a home,
the world of spirit wishes not to fetter us
but raise us higher, step by step.
Scarce in some safe accustomed sphere of life
have we establish a house, then we grow lax;
only he who is ready to journey forth
can throw old habits off.
Maybe death’s hour too will send us out new-born
towards undreamed-lands,
maybe life’s call to us will never find an end
Courage my heart, take leave and fare thee well.
Wie jede Blüte welkt und jede Jugend
Dem Alter weicht, blüht jede Lebensstufe,
Blüht jede Weisheit auch und jede Tugend
Zu ihrer Zeit und darf nicht ewig dauern.
Es muß das Herz bei jedem Lebensrufe
Bereit zum Abschied sein und Neubeginne,
Um sich in Tapferkeit und ohne Trauern
In andre, neue Bindungen zu geben.
Und jedem Anfang wohnt ein Zauber inne,
Der uns beschützt und der uns hilft, zu leben.
Wir sollen heiter Raum um Raum durchschreiten,
An keinem wie an einer Heimat hängen,
Der Weltgeist will nicht fesseln uns und engen,
Er will uns Stuf´ um Stufe heben, weiten.
Kaum sind wir heimisch einem Lebenskreise
Und traulich eingewohnt, so droht Erschlaffen;
Nur wer bereit zu Aufbruch ist und Reise,
Mag lähmender Gewöhnung sich entraffen.
Es wird vielleicht auch noch die Todesstunde
Uns neuen Räumen jung entgegen senden,
Des Lebens Ruf an uns wird niemals enden,
Wohlan denn, Herz, nimm Abschied und gesunde.
Herman Hess, 1941, Steps
Who had the idea of slicing time into pieces,
which were given the name of year,
was a genius person.
Industrialized hope
pushing it to the limits of its exhaustiveness.
Twelve months are enough for any human being to get tired and give up
Then comes the miracle of renovation and all stars once again
we pick up another number wishing that
from now on everything will be different..
...For you,
I wish your dreams fulfilled.
The love you waited.
Hope renewed.
For you,
I wish all the colors of life.
All happiness you can smile to
All songs you can thrill.
For you in this new year,
Wish all friends to be better,
May your family be more united,
May your life be more lived.
I would like to wish you so many things.
But nothing would be enough...
So, I wish only that you have many wishes.
Big wishes and may they move you further every single minute,
on route to your happiness!
Quem teve a ideia de cortar o tempo em fatias,
a que se deu o nome de ano,
foi um indivíduo genial.
Industrializou a esperança,
fazendo-a funcionar no limite da exaustão.
Doze meses dão para qualquer ser humano se cansar
e entregar os pontos.
Aí entra o milagre da renovação
e tudo começa outra vez, com outro número
e outra vontade de acreditar
que daqui para diante tudo vai ser diferente.
Para você, desejo o sonho realizado,
o amor esperado,
a esperança renovada.
Para você, desejo todas as cores desta vida,
todas as alegriar que puder sorrir,
todas as músicas que puder emocionar.
Para você, neste novo ano,
desejo que os amigos sejam mais cúmplices,
que sua família seja mais unida,
que sua vida seja mais bem vivida.
Gostaria de lhe desejar tantas coisas...
Mas nada seria suficiente...
Então desejo apenas que você tenha muitos desejos,
desejos grandes.
E que eles possam mover você a cada minuto
ao rumo da sua felicidade.
