V
Here we go round the prickly pear
Prickly pear prickly pear
Here we go round the prickly pear
At five o’clock in the morning.
Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow
For Thine is the Kingdom
Between the conception
And the creation
Between the emotion
And the response
Falls the Shadow
Life is very long
Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow
For Thine is the Kingdom
For Thine is
Life is
For Thine is the
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but with a whimper.
—T.S. Eliot
Hoje em dia já ninguém lá vai, aquilo está cheio de gente
Artigos etiquetados “poesia”
When the day is long
And full of pain
I remember
A certain little lane
Where every night,
At half-past seven,
The train flashed by
On its way to heaven
There you and I,
Watching in the lane,
Dreamed of riding
Inside the train—
Away from the wide
Sun-flowered plain
And tall fields of
High rolling grain.
When night is long
And strangely sane,
I remember
A certain little lane,
Where, on one night—
So it befell—
The train passed heaven
On its way to hell.
—Eda Lou Walton, Beyond Sorrow, 1921
I
Reconheci-te logo destruída
Sem te poder olhar porque tu eras
O próprio coração da minha vida
E eu esperei-te em todas as esperas.
II
Conheci-te e vivi-te em cada deus
E do teu peso em mim é que eu fui triste
Sempre. Tu depois só me destruíste
Com os teus passos mais reais que os meus.
—Sophia de Mello Breyner Andresen, Dia do Mar, 1947
forms an ivory exclamation mark
in the black circle
of her pupile every time
he calls her
lovely
In the other eye’s dark key
appears a question mark—
she often wishes her thoughts
were not so inscribed
in her expressions.
—Rebecca Lindenberg, Love, An Index, 2012
They’re both convinced
that a sudden passion joined them.
Such certainty is beautiful,
but uncertainty is more beautiful still.
Since they’d never met before, they’re sure
that there’d been nothing between them.
But what’s the word from the streets, staircases, hallways–
perhaps they’ve passed by each other a million times?
I want to ask them
if they don’t remember–
a moment face to face
in some revolving door?
perhaps a “sorry” muttered in a crowd?
a curt “wrong number” caught in the receiver?
but I know the answer.
No, they don’t remember.
They’d be amazed to hear
that Chance has been toying with them
now for years.
Not quite ready yet
to become their Destiny,
it pushed them close, drove them apart,
it barred their path,
stifling a laugh,
and then leaped aside.
There were signs and signals,
even if they couldn’t read them yet.
Perhaps three years ago
or just last Tuesday
a certain leaf fluttered
from one shoulder to another?
Something was dropped and then picked up.
Who knows, maybe the ball that vanished
into childhood’s thicket?
There were doorknobs and doorbells
where one touch had covered another beforehand.
Suitcases checked and standing side by side.
One night, perhaps, the same dream,
grown hazy by morning.
Every beginning
is only a sequel, after all,
and the book of events
is always open halfway through.
—Wislawa Szymborska, View With a Grain of Sand: Selected Poems, 1995