A brave and startling truth. Maya Angelou

 

We, this people, on a small and lonely planet
Traveling through casual space
Past aloof stars, across the way of indifferent suns
To a destination where all signs tell us
It is possible and imperative that we learn
A brave and startling truth

And when we come to it
To the day of peacemaking
When we release our fingers
From fists of hostility
And allow the pure air to cool our palms

When we come to it
When the curtain falls on the minstrel show of hate
And faces sooted with scorn are scrubbed clean
When battlefields and coliseum
No longer rake our unique and particular sons and daughters
Up with the bruised and bloody grass
To lie in identical plots in foreign soil

When the rapacious storming of the churches
The screaming racket in the temples have ceased
When the pennants are waving gaily
When the banners of the world tremble
Stoutly in the good, clean breeze

When we come to it
When we let the rifles fall from our shoulders
And children dress their dolls in flags of truce
When land mines of death have been removed
And the aged can walk into evenings of peace
When religious ritual is not perfumed
By the incense of burning flesh
And childhood dreams are not kicked awake
By nightmares of abuse

When we come to it
Then we will confess that not the Pyramids
With their stones set in mysterious perfection
Nor the Gardens of Babylon
Hanging as eternal beauty
In our collective memory
Not the Grand Canyon
Kindled into delicious color
By Western sunsets

Nor the Danube, flowing its blue soul into Europe
Not the sacred peak of Mount Fuji
Stretching to the Rising Sun
Neither Father Amazon nor Mother Mississippi who, without favor,
Nurture all creatures in the depths and on the shores
These are not the only wonders of the world

When we come to it
We, this people, on this minuscule and kithless globe
Who reach daily for the bomb, the blade and the dagger
Yet who petition in the dark for tokens of peace
We, this people on this mote of matter
In whose mouths abide cankerous words
Which challenge our very existence
Yet out of those same mouths
Come songs of such exquisite sweetness
That the heart falters in its labor
And the body is quieted into awe

We, this people, on this small and drifting planet
Whose hands can strike with such abandon
That in a twinkling, life is sapped from the living
Yet those same hands can touch with such healing, irresistible tenderness
That the haughty neck is happy to bow
And the proud back is glad to bend
Out of such chaos, of such contradiction
We learn that we are neither devils nor divines

When we come to it
We, this people, on this wayward, floating body
Created on this earth, of this earth
Have the power to fashion for this earth
A climate where every man and every woman
Can live freely without sanctimonious piety
Without crippling fear

When we come to it
We must confess that we are the possible
We are the miraculous, the true wonder of this world
That is when, and only when
We come to it.

Maya Angelou

On the Pulse of Morning. Maya Angelou

A Rock, A River, A Tree
Hosts to species long since departed,
Marked the mastodon.
The dinosaur, who left dry tokens
Of their sojourn here
On our planet floor,
Any broad alarm of their hastening doom
Is lost in the gloom of dust and ages.

But today, the Rock cries out to us, clearly, forcefully,
Come, you may stand upon my
Back and face your distant destiny,
But seek no haven in my shadow.

I will give you no more hiding place down here.

You, created only a little lower than
The angels, have crouched too long in
The bruising darkness,
Have lain too long
Face down in ignorance.

Your mouths spilling words
Armed for slaughter.

The Rock cries out today, you may stand on me,
But do not hide your face.

Across the wall of the world,
A River sings a beautiful song,
Come rest here by my side.

Each of you a bordered country,
Delicate and strangely made proud,
Yet thrusting perpetually under siege.

Your armed struggles for profit
Have left collars of waste upon
My shore, currents of debris upon my breast.

Yet, today I call you to my riverside,
If you will study war no more. Come,

Clad in peace and I will sing the songs
The Creator gave to me when I and the
Tree and the stone were one.

Before cynicism was a bloody sear across your
Brow and when you yet knew you still
Knew nothing.

The River sings and sings on.

There is a true yearning to respond to
The singing River and the wise Rock.

So say the Asian, the Hispanic, the Jew
The African and Native American, the Sioux,
The Catholic, the Muslim, the French, the Greek
The Irish, the Rabbi, the Priest, the Sheikh,
The Gay, the Straight, the Preacher,
The privileged, the homeless, the Teacher.
They hear. They all hear
The speaking of the Tree.

Today, the first and last of every Tree
Speaks to humankind. Come to me, here beside the River.

Plant yourself beside me, here beside the River.

Each of you, descendant of some passed
On traveller, has been paid for.

You, who gave me my first name, you
Pawnee, Apache and Seneca, you
Cherokee Nation, who rested with me, then
Forced on bloody feet, left me to the employment of
Other seekers- desperate for gain,
Starving for gold.

You, the Turk, the Swede, the German, the Scot…
You the Ashanti, the Yoruba, the Kru, bought
Sold, stolen, arriving on a nightmare
Praying for a dream.

Here, root yourselves beside me.

I am the Tree planted by the River,
Which will not be moved.

I, the Rock, I the River, I the Tree
I am yours- your Passages have been paid.

Lift up your faces, you have a piercing need
For this bright morning dawning for you.

History, despite its wrenching pain,
Cannot be unlived, and if faced
With courage, need not be lived again.

Lift up your eyes upon
The day breaking for you.

Give birth again
To the dream.

Women, children, men,
Take it into the palms of your hands.

Mold it into the shape of your most
Private need. Sculpt it into
The image of your most public self.
Lift up your hearts
Each new hour holds new chances
For new beginnings.

Do not be wedded forever
To fear, yoked eternally
To brutishness.

The horizon leans forward,
Offering you space to place new steps of change.
Here, on the pulse of this fine day
You may have the courage
To look up and out upon me, the
Rock, the River, the Tree, your country.

No less to Midas than the mendicant.

No less to you now than the mastodon then.

Here on the pulse of this new day
You may have the grace to look up and out
And into your sister’s eyes, into
Your brother’s face, your country
And say simply
Very simply
With hope
Good morning.

Maya Angelou
(faleceu ontem, dia 28 de maio, 2014)

Os livros. Eugénio de Andrade

bookandorigami

Os livros. A sua cálida,
terna, serena pele. Amorosa
companhia. Dispostos sempre
a partilhar o sol
das suas águas. Tão dóceis,
tão calados, tão leais,
tão luminosos na sua
branca e vegetal e cerrada
melancolia. Amados
como nenhuns outros companheiros
da alma. Tão musicais
no fluvial e transbordante
ardor de cada dia.

Ofício de Paciência, Eugénio de Andrade

Pó. Pedro Mexia


Nas estantes os livros ficam
(até se dispersarem ou desfazerem)
enquanto tudo
passa. O pó acumula-se
e depois de limpo
torna a acumular-se
no cimo das lombadas.
Quando a cidade está suja
(obras, carros, poeiras)
o pó é mais negro e por vezes
espesso. Os livros ficam,
valem mais que tudo,
mas apesar do amor
(amor das coisas mudas
que sussurram)
e do cuidado doméstico
fica sempre, em baixo,
do lado oposto à lombada,
uma pequena marca negra
do pó nas páginas.
A marca faz parte dos livros.
Estão marcados. Nós também.

Pedro Mexia

Fortuna fiel. Gabriela Mistral

IMGP7772

Tenho a fortuna fiel
e a fortuna perdida.
Uma assim como rosa,
a outra assim como espinho.
Não me prejudicou
o roubo que sofri.
Tenho a fortuna fiel
e a fortuna perdida.
E estou rica de púrpura
e de melancolia.
Como é amada a rosa,
como é amante o espinho!
Tal num duplo contorno
frutas gémeas unidas,
tenho a fortuna fiel
e a fortuna perdida.

Gabriela Mistral

Leitora. Maria Teresa Horta

IMGP7798

Confesso o vício de ler
afago
cada palavra

Bebo o feitiço das histórias
cada rosa cada asa
por onde a busca se enlaça

Revolvo-me na ruptura
ou na ternura descalça
onde a caneta sutura

Tomo o corpo da leitura
enredo-me no seu abraço
ora vestida ora nua

Ao longo deste prazer
não há nada que eu não faça
em entrega e em devassa

Indo mais longe no ler
encontro o cisne e a rola
na tocaia do prazer

Tenho a paixão da leitura
teima na escrita do perigo
e estremeço de prazer ao entreabrir um livro

Corro as mãos nas suas espáduas
desnudo frases de feltro
afloro as suas pálpebras

Entrelaço as consoantes
com as vogais e o enredo
diante das fantasias no sobressalto do medo

Descubro escusas passagens
pelas cisternas dos livros
ao desfolhar suas páginas

Na entrega e no sustido
nas lágrimas e no sorriso
entre o ardil e o tigre

Ora cumprindo
a harmonia
ora querendo a transgressão

Sou uma leitora voraz
tenho um trato com a audácia
e outro com o perdimento

Entre a leitura e a escrita
existe um espaço sedento
rebeldia e firmamento

Digo tempo e confissão
das cartas das bibliotecas
das literaturas secretas

Corro nas linhas dos livros
tropeçando
de avidez

Na cama quero as palavras
Enoveladas errantes
com elas sou viajante

No rumo da minha
vida
estão os livros e as estantes

Gosto de beber o cheiro
do interior da leitura
temperado com canela e as coisas obscuras

Deleito-me com a poesia
endoideço com o romance
esquivamento das mulheres

com a sua escrita de leite
de linho e alquimia
de aço rumorejante

Encontro a rima cismada
dobo a palavra a vapor
na teima de quem porfia

Vou em busca do fulgor
corro atrás da literatura
dos textos e da leitura

Sou dependente dos livros
sem eles posso morrer
perco-me de tão perdida se proibida de ler

In: Pessoa: Revista de Ideias
Nº 4 (Setembro de 2011)

Imagem: entrada da Centésima Página (Braga)

Poesia. Miguel Torga

IMGP7773

É dia no outro mundo
Dos versos.
Abriu-se a noite num halo
De véu caído,
E uma mensagem de charco
Purificado
Entra, branca, no ouvido…
É há um ouvido acordado.
Pelos fios do luar
Etéreos sons, melodias,
Vão chegando,
E são as valas sombrias
E os juncos negros da lama
Que se iluminam na chama
Dessa fogueira secreta
Que queima os lençóis da cama
Do Poeta.

Sinais perdidos no espaço?
Mas é no morse de imagens,
Na espectral telegrafia,
Que são reais as paisagens
Da Poesia.

Miguel Torga in Poesia Completa