Say not the struggle nought availeth,
The labour and the wounds are vain,
The enemy faints not, nor faileth,
And as things have been they remain.
If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars;
It may be, in yon smoke concealed,
Your comrades chase e’en now the fliers,
And, but for you, possess the field.
For while the tired waves, vainly breaking
Seem here no painful inch to gain,
Far back through creeks and inlets making,
Comes silent, flooding in, the main.
And not by eastern windows only,
When daylight comes, comes in the light,
In front the sun climbs slow, how slowly,
But westward, look, the land is bright.
—Arthur Hugh Clough
Hoje em dia já ninguém lá vai, aquilo está cheio de gente
Artigos etiquetados “poesia”
Hello, sun in my face.
Hello, you who make the morning
and spread it over the fields
and into the faces of the tulips
and the nodding morning glories,
and into the windows of, even, the
miserable and crotchety–
best preacher that ever was,
dear star, that just happens
to be where you are in the universe
to keep us from ever-darkness,
to ease us with warm touching,
to hold us in the great hands of light–
good morning, good morning, good morning.
Watch, now, how I start the day
in happiness, in kindness.
—Mary Oliver
Les sanglots longs
Des violons
De l’automne
Blessent mon cœur
D’une langueur
Monotone.
Tout suffocant
Et blême, quand
Sonne l’heure,
Je me souviens
Des jours anciens
Et je pleure;
Et je m’en vais
Au vent mauvais
Qui m’emporte
Deçà, delà,
Pareil à la
Feuille morte.
—Paul Verlaine, Poèmes saturniens, 1866. (Ouvi este poema no filme Frantz de François Ozon.)
Winter has come again
Bringing with it cold and snow
The trees are bare and stark
Their leaves have long ago fallen
The winds howl and moan
As they whip through the barren landscape
The days are short and dark
And the nights are long and cold
But despite the chill and the bleakness
There is beauty to be found
In the starkness of the trees
And the blanket of white that covers the ground
The silence of the winter woods
Is a kind of peace
A respite from the hustle and bustle
A time for rest and reflection
So let us embrace the winter
And all its quiet, solitary splendor
For though it may be cold and harsh
It has its own unique beauty to offer.
Este poema sobre o Inverno, foi gerado a meu pedido no estilo Louise Glück no site ChatGPT — Write poem about winter Louise Glück style. Se dissesse simplesmente que era da autora, enganaria virtualmente toda a gente. Depois pedi em português e a máquina também cumpriu de forma aceitável.
Write poem about winter Louise Glück style in portuguese.
O inverno chegou outra vez
Trazendo frio e neve
As árvores estão nuas e severas
Suas folhas já caíram há muito tempo
Os ventos uivam e gemem
Quando sopram através do paisagem despida
Os dias são curtos e escuros
E as noites são longas e frias
Mas apesar do frio e da desolação
Há beleza a ser encontrada
Na severidade das árvores
E na manta branca que cobre o solo
O silêncio dos bosques de inverno
É uma espécie de paz
Um refúgio do corre-corre
Um tempo para descanso e reflexão
Então vamos abraçar o inverno
E toda a sua quietude, solitária esplendor
Porque embora possa ser frio e duro
Ele tem sua própria beleza única a oferecer.
Mas onde me parece que é algo que irá certamente mudar o curso da civilização, é na sua capacidade de escrever, adaptar e converter código. Se código é poesia, esta máquina é uma autêntica poeta. O que um programador demoraria anos a fazer, aqui demora minutos. E outras coisas. Anda perto do inacreditável (Engraved). Vou arquivar este texto na categoria Poesia, porque gostei do poema.
(…)
What though the radiance which was once so bright
Be now for ever taken from my sight,
Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;
We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind;
In the primal sympathy
Which having been must ever be;
In the soothing thoughts that spring
Out of human suffering;
In the faith that looks through death,
In years that bring the philosophic mind.
(…)
—William Wordsworth, Ode: Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood