Poetry of the month
Translator(from portuguese): Milhomens, Lia Pantoja
To all of you,
I loved and I love,
icons stored in a heart-cave,
as one who stands at a banquet the cup and
replete with verses I raise my skull.
I think, more than once:
perhaps be better
bring me the end point of a bullet.
give today my farewell concert.
Summon to the halls of the brain
a row of countless loved ones.
Flow the laughter pupil on pupil,
wear the wedding night passed.
Body to body flow the joy.
This night will be in History.
Today I will execute my verses
on the flute of my own vertebrae.
Poem extracted from the site
Author: Bronte, Anne (1820-1849)
I'll rest me in this sheltered bower,
And look upon the clear blue sky
That smiles upon me through the trees,
Which stand so thick clustering by;
And view their green and glossy leaves,
All glistening in the sunshine fair;
And list the rustling of their boughs,
So softly whispering through the air.
And while my ear drinks in the sound,
My winged soul shall fly away;
Reviewing lone departed years
As one mild, beaming, autumn day;
And soaring on to future scenes,
Like hills and woods, and valleys green,
All basking in the summer's sun,
But distant still, and dimly seen.
Oh, list! `tis summer´s very breath
That gently shakes the rustling trees
- But look! the snow is on the ground
- How can I think of scenes like these?
"Tis but the FROST that clears the air,
And gives the sky that lovely blue;
They´re smiling in a WINTER´S sun,
Those evergreens of sombre hue.
And winter's chill is on my heart
- How can I dream of future bliss?
How can my spirit soar away,
Confined by such a chain as this?
"The Arbour" is reprinted from Poems By Currer, Ellis and Acton Bell. Charlotte, Anne and Emily Bronte. Philadelphia: Lea and Blanchard, 1848
Souvent, pour s'amuser, les hommes d'équipage
Prennent des albatros, vastes oiseaux des mers,
Qui suivent, indolents compagnons de voyage,
Le navire glissant sur les gouffres amers.
À peine les ont-ils déposés sur les planches,
Que ces rois de l'azur, maladroits et honteux,
Laissent piteusement leurs grandes ailes blanches
Comme des avirons traîner à côté d'eux.
Ce voyageur ailé, comme il est gauche et veule!
Lui, naguère si beau, qu'il est comique et laid!
L'un agace son bec avec un brûle-gueule,
L'autre mime, en boitant, l'infirme qui volait!
Le Poète est semblable au prince des nuées
Qui hante la tempête et se rit de l'archer;
Exilé sur le sol au milieu des huées,
Ses ailes de géant l'empêchent de marcher.
Author: Assis Lima, Francisco de
Trad: Milhomens, Lia Pantoja
Thou are as the most beautiful and sensitive rose
That was born among thorns just to delight
To all who surround you with affection and love
And to everyone that see you with good eyes
Thou are, to me, like my most
alive and real reality!
Thou are as my purest and rich
Thou are the mirror of my sweet life,
Thou are the hope of my sensitive eyes.
And, as the sunlight hits and reflects
in the mirror,
I’d like thou’s beautiful eyes
would be always well reflected
Into me ...
I am looking for space ...
for the design of life.
In numbers embarrass me
and always miss the measure ...
If I suppose find exit,
rather than open a compass,
I design me on a hug
and create a farewell.
If I go back on my step,
distance is already lost.
My heart, something steel,
begins to find tiredness,
By this demand for space
for the design of life.
Already by exhausted and distrusted
don’t I cheer me up a brief dash:
- longing what I do not do,
- of what I do, sorry.
HERE IS MY LIFE
Here is my life.
This sand so clear
with drawings of walking
dedicated to the wind.
Here is my voice,
this hollow shell, shadow of sound
enjoying their own lament
Here is my pain,
this coral broken,
surviving to its
Here is my heritage,
this lonely sea
that on one side was love and,
on other, forgetfulness.
OR THIS OR THAT
Or we have rain and we have not sun
or we have sun and not the rain!
Or we put on the glove and not the ring,
or we put on the ring and not the glove!
Who goes up in the air doesn’t stay on the floor,
which stays on the floor doesn’t raise in the air!
It is a great pity we can not be
staying at the same time in two places.
Or I hold the money and don’t buy the sweet,
or I buy the candy and spend the money.
Or this or that: either this or that . . .
and I live in choosing the entire day!
I don’t know if I play , I do not know if I study,
if I run away or I stay tranquil.
But I am still unable to understand
which is better: if it is this or that.
Author: Pound, Ezra
See, they return;ah, see the tentative
Movements, and the slow feet,
The trouble in the pace and the uncertain
See, they return, one, and by one,
With fear, as half-awakened;
As if the snow should hesitate
And murmur in the wind ,
and half turn back;
These were the “Wing’d-with-Awe”,
Gods of that winged shoe!
With them the silver hounds,
sniffing the trace of air!
These were the swift to hurry;
These the keen-scented;
These were the souls of blood.
Slow on the leash,
Pallid the leash-men!
LOVE THEE ...
Love thee each other,
but do not make of love a chain.
That there is, rather, a waving sea
among the beaches of your soul.
Fill a bowl of each other,
but do not drink in the same bowl.
Give your bread each other,
but do not eat the same piece.
Sing and dance together,
and be merry,
each one of you to be alone.
As the strings of the lyre
are separated, and
vibrate in the same harmony,
Give your heart,
but do not entrust it in custody of each other.
For only the hand of Life
may contain your heart.
And live together,
but do not curl up too much.
Because the columns of the temple
Author : Johann Wolfgang Goëthe
Translator: Lia Pantoja Milhomens
(from the spanish version)
Of the happy ones long ago we
We have of for you now having cares.
Say, Rocks! Speak, prominent Palaces!
Streets, only a Word! Genius, do not you agitate yourself?
Yes, everything has soul in your sacred Walls
Perpetual Rome; only before me you remain in silence.
Oh, who will say me in a whisper where Window will see
one day the candy Creature who, abrasing me alliviates me?
Don’t I intuit but the Ways for which without ceasing,
going your house and coming back, I sacrifice the precious Time?
Still I contemplate Church and Palace, Ruins and Columns,
as the cautious Man who the Trip progress well.
But soon it finishes: an unic Temple,
the Temple of Love, wich the Initiate receives, is had an interview.
The whole world you are, ó Rome; but without Love
then World would not be World; then, therefore, Rome would not
Author: Omar Khayyam
The caravan of life shall always pass.
Beware that is fresh as sweet young grass.
Let's not worry about what tomorrow will amass.
Fill my cup again,this night will pass, alas!
To be aware of each moment spent,
Is to leave in the now,and be present!
Worry for morrow shan't make a dent.
Caring for the now,your mind must be bent.
One Moment in Annihilation's
One moment, of the Well of Life to taste --
The Stars are setting, and the Caravan
Starts for the dawn of No -
thing - Oh, make haste!
Diese Lebenskarawane ist ein seltsamer Sug,
Drum hasche die flüchtige Freude im Elug !
Mach'Dir im künftigen Gram keine Sorgen,
Fülle das Glas, bald naht wieder der Morgen!
Note of the Translator:
The rubaiyat is one poetry form attributed to the great persian mathemathician, astronomer and poet of ancient times, Omar Khayyam, wrtten originally in Persian language. "Rubaiyat" is derived from the Arabic root for 4 and means "quatrains", ver-ses of four lines.
We know that these quatrains are not only poems, but philosophic thoughts too - every rubaiyat contains a complete philosophic pos-tulate.
Many authors,world-wide, every centuries after the rubaiyats have been wrot-ten, made their own meanings to everyone of them.
Here we have just one rubaiyat, in 4 versions from Arabic , that says about the fugacity of the Life : Literal translation,Current Meaning, Fitzgerald's meaning, and German Version.
TO BE MOTHER
Author : Coelho Neto
Trad. : Lia Pantoja Milhomens
To be mother is to unfold fiber
by fiber the heart!
To be mother is to have in the
Lips that sucks, the pedestal of
Where the life, where the love,
To be mother is to be an angel
that herself librates
Over a cradle sleeping! It is to
It is to be recklessness, it is
to be distrust,
It is to be support that the evils
Her’s son good is all the
good the mother enjoys,
Mirror where she looks at herself
Light that a new shine in her eyes
To be mother is to be crying in
To be mother is to have one world
and nothing to have !
To be mother is to suffer in a
Coelho Neto, Brazilian
writer, was born in Caxias, Maranhão
in day 20 of February of 1864 died
in Rio de Janeiro in day 28 of November
Author: Rudyard Kipling
If you can keep your head when all about
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you
But make allowance for their doubting too,
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream--and not make dreams
If you can think--and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:
If you can make one heap of all your
And risk it all on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"
If you can talk with crowds and keep
Or walk with kings--nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much,
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And--which is more--you'll be a Man, my son !
A MIDSUMMER NIGHT´S DREAM
(Dramatis Personae : Titania :Queen of the Fairies ;Oberon - King of the Fairies; Puck - or Robin
A wood near Athens
Not for thy fairy kingdon. Fairies,
We shall chide downright, if longer
(Exit Titania with her train)
Well, go thy way:thou shalt not from
Till I torment thee for this injury.
My gentle Puck, come hither. Thou rememberest
Since once I sat upon a promontory,
And heard a mermaid, on a dolphin's
Uttering such dulcet and harmonious
That the rude sea grew civil at her
And certain stars shot madly from their
To hear the sea-maid's music.
That very time I saw, but thou couldst not,
Flying between the cold moon and the earth,
Cupid all arm'd : a certain aim he took
At a fair vestal throned by the west,
And loosed his love-shaft smartly from his bow,
As it should pierce a hundred thousand hearts :
But I might see young Cupid's fiery shaft
Quench'd in the chaste beams of the watery moon,
imperial votaress passed on,
In maiden meditation, fancy-free.
Yet mark'd I where the bolt of Cupid fell;
It fell upon e little western flower,
Before milk-white, now purple withe love's wound,
And maidens call it love-in-idleness.
me that flower; the herb
I shew'd thee once:
The juice of it on sleeping eye-lids laid
Will make or man or woman madly dote
Upon the next live creature that it sees.
Fetch me this herb;and be thou here again
Ere the leviathan can swim a league.
I'll put a girdle round about the earth
In forty minutes.
Having once this juice,
I'll watch Titania when she is asleep,
And drop the liquor of it in her eyes.
The next thing then she waking looks upon,
Be it on lion, bear, or wolf, or bull,
On meddling monkey, or on busy ape,
She shall pursue it with the soul of love :
And ere I take this charm from off her sight,
As I can take it with another herb,
I'll make her render up her pagem to me.
But who comes here? I am invisible;
And I will overhear their conference.
(Enter Demetrius, Helena following him)
Vai-se a primeira pomba despertada ...
Vai-se outra mais ... mais outra ... enfim dezenas
de pombas vão-se dos pombais, apenas
Raia sangüínea e fresca a madrugada .
E à tarde, quando a rígida nortada
Sopra, aos pombais, de novo, elas, serenas,
Ruflando as asas, sacudindo as penas,
Voltam todas em bando e em revoada ...
Também dos corações onde abotoam,
Os sonhos, um por um , céleres voam
Como voam as pombas dos pombais;
No azul da adolescência as asas soltam,
Fogem ... Mas aos pombais as pombas voltam
E eles aos corações não voltam mais ...