"This is the strangest life I've ever known"

FAZ hoje 46 anos que morreu Jim Morrison em Paris. Ao pesquisar possíveis ilustrações para um artigo publicado no Macau Daily Times, encontrei online esta foto tirada cinco dias antes da sua morte, durante um passeio à zona de L'Oise, no norte de França. 

E há também esta, tirada na mesma ocasião, com a namorada Pamela, que viria a morrer no dia 25 de Abril de 1974:

the crunch

Too much
too little
or not enough

too fat
too thin
or nobody

laughter or
tears
or immaculate
non-concern

haters
lovers

armies running through streets of blood
waving winebottles
bayoneting and fucking virgins

or an old guy in a cheap room
with a photograph of Marilyn Monroe

many old guys in cheap rooms without
any photographs at all

many old women rubbing rosaries
when they'd prefer to be rubbing cocks

there is a loneliness in this world so great
that you can see it in the slow movements of
the hands of a clock

there is a loneliness in this world so great
that you can see it blinking in neon signs
in Vegas, in Baltimore, in Munich

there are people so tired
so strafed
so mutilated by love or no
love
that buying a bargain can of tuna
in a supermarket
is their greatest moment
their greatest victory

we don't need new governments
new revolutions
we don't need new men
new women
we don't need new ways
wife-swaps
waterbeds
good Columbian
coke
water pipes
dildoes
rubbers with corkscrew stems
watches that give you the date

people are not good to each other
one on one.
Marx be damned
the sin is not the totality of certain systems.
Christianity be damned
the sin is not the killing of a God.

people are just not good to each other.

we are afraid
we think that hatred means strength
we think that New York City is the greatest
city in America.

what we need is less brilliance
what we need is less instruction

what we need are less poets
what we need are less Bukowskies
what we need are less Billy Grahams

what we need is more
beer
a typist
more finches
more green-eyed whores who don't eat your heart
like a vitamin pill

we don't think about the terror of one person
aching in one place

alone
untouched
unspoken to
watering a plant
being without a telephone that will never
ring
because there isn't one.

more haters than lovers

slices of doom like taffeta

people are not good to each other
people are not good to each other
people are not good to each other

and the beads swing and the clouds cloud
and the dogs piss upon the roses
and the killer beheads the child like taking a bite
out of an ice cream cone
and the ocean comes in and out
in and out
under the direction of a senseless moon

and people are not good to each other.

Appears (in an edited form) in Love is a Dog From Hell

MACAU AND THE SUBVERSIVE POET BOCAGE

BOCAGE, one of the most celebrated Portuguese poets of all time, arrived in Macau at the end of 1789 and lived here for approximately six months. His presence in Macau was marked yesterday during a session held at the Old Court Building and included in the Macau Literary Festival.
With an unusual talent for improvisation and irony, Bocage was a “first class poet” and “a transgressor in social, political, religious and sexual terms,” explained Daniel Pires, a researcher of his work.
Arriving in Macau from Guangzhou (or Canton, as the Chinese city was known at the time) after having deserted the army in India, Bocage described the city in a poem: “plenty of poverty, many vile women, one hundred Portuguese, all [living] in a pigsty.”
Daniel Pires noted that, as was common in the XVIII century, he also had to write elegies for his Macau hosts. “That was normal at the time, a poor poet needed to express his gratitude.”
Back in the motherland, the short-lived poet, who died when he was forty, faced the hardships of someone “who decided to live on the margins of society and paid dearly for his choice, going through phases of extreme poverty and ‘uncertain dinners’,” Pires said.
Persecuted by censorship and the Inquisition, the poet was arrested several times. His bohemian lifestyle meant that he became famous for his romantic adventures and thus provoked many anecdotes both in Portugal and Brazil, where he also lived.
Bocage was born in September 1765. Celebrations are still being held this year to mark the 250th year of the poet’s birth.
(PB, Published in MDT)

FERNANDO Pessoa morreu há 80 anos, a 30 de novembro de 1935. Gostei de ler esta entrevista com a sobrinha, que recorda alguns aspectos menos conhecidos da vida do enorme poeta. 

Adoro esta capa do novo livro do Pedro Mexia (que, por acaso, vi este Verão na Figueira). A foto resume um pouco parte da minha infância. Horas a contemplar esta paisagem (não exactamente esta, a praia já era maior nos anos 80) na Esplanada Silva Guimarães, com os meus pais e o saudoso avô Américo. Parafraseando o título do Mexia, muito se perdeu entretanto, muito se ganhou. A vida é assim.

O décimo segundo número da Inefável já está disponível. Neste número é evocada a poesia de Muhammad Ibn ‘Abbâd al-Mu’tamid e são dados a ler poemas de Paulo Jorge Barbosa e de Mariana Basílio. Por fim, o meu grandioso amigo e parceiro Ricardo M Marques apresenta a poesia de Li Bai.

KEROUAC:  

FILME muito cá de casa, escusado seria dizer: 



HOLY HOLY EVERYWHERE IS HOLY HOLY HOLY THE POEM IS HOLY HOLY THE ABYSS

Herberto

 
-->

TO sing you must first open your mouth. You must have a pair of lungs, and a little knowledge of music. It is not necessary to have an accordion, or a guitar. The essential thing is to want to sing. This then is a song. I am singing.” (Henry Miller)
E como cantava bem o Herberto nos seus melhores dias... Mesmo o inculto, ou aquele que não tem a menor inclinação para a poesia, será capaz de ver beleza nisto, porque isto é respiração, é uma pessoa a cantar por dentro. E que bem que canta:

As mães são as mais altas coisas
que os filhos criam, porque se colocam
na combustão dos filhos, porque
os filhos estão como invasores dentes-de-Ieão
no terreno das mães.

E através da mãe o filho pensa
que nenhuma morte é possível e as águas
estão ligadas entre si
por meio da mão dele que toca a cara louca
da mãe que toca a mão pressentida do filho.
E por dentro do amor, até somente ser possível
amar tudo,
e ser possível tudo ser reencontrado por dentro do amor.

-->

Minha cabeça estremece com todo o esquecimento.

Eu procuro dizer como tudo é outra coisa.
Falo, penso.

Herberto Helder (RIP)

Transcrição do poema de Herberto Helder pintado na parede do quarto da Real República Palácio da Loucura

HISTÓRIA O senhor do monóculo usava uma boca desdenhosa e na botoeira, a insolência duma rosa. Era o poeta. Quando passava - figura subtil e correcta, toda a gente dizia que era o poeta. - Era, portanto, o poeta... Mas um dia o senhor de monóculo quebrou o monóculo, guardou a boca desdenhosa e esqueceu na mesa de cabeceira a flor que punha na botoeira, a insolente rosa... Entrou nas tabernas e bebeu, cingiu o corpo das prostitutas, jogou aos dados e perdeu, deu a mão aos operários, beijou todos os calvários - e aprendeu. E o mundo, que o chamava poeta, esqueceu; e quando o via passar limitava-se a exclamar: - o vagabundo! Mas o senhor do antigo monóculo, da antiga figura subtil e correcta, sentia vozes dentro de si, vozes de júbilo que diziam: - É o Poeta! É o Poeta!... Herberto Helder

DO NOT GO GENTLE INTO THAT GOOD NIGHT

DO not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rage at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light. 
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.  
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

                                                    Dylan Thomas

POEMAS de Leonel Alves (1921-1982) interessantes para uma reflexão sobre a identidade de certos macaenses:

“Sabem quem sou?

Meu pai era transmontano
Minha mãe china taoista
Eu cá sou, pois, euraseano
Cem por cento macaísta.

Meu sangue tem a bravura

Dos touros de Portugal,
Temperada co’a brandura
Do chinês meridional.

Meu peito é luso-chinês,

Meu génio sino-lusitano,
E toda a minha altivez
Sabe ter um trato lhano.

Tenho um pouco de Camões
E defeitos lusitanos
E nalgumas ocasiões
Pensamentos confucianos”

(...)

“Cabelos que se tornam sempre escuros

Olhos chineses e nariz ariano

Costas orientais, peito lusitano

Braços e pernas finos mas seguros.

Mentalidade mista.

Tem dextreza

No manejo de objectos não pesados

Tem gosto por Pop Songs mas ouve fados

Coração chinês e alma portuguesa.

Casa com a chinesa por instinto

Vive de arroz e come bacalhau

Bebe café, não chá, e vinho tinto.

É mui bondoso quando não é mau

Por interesse escolhe o seu recinto

Eis o autêntico filho de Macau”.

“Sabem quem sou?/Meu pai era transmontano/Minha mãe china taoista/Eu cá sou, pois, euraseano/Cem por cento macaísta. /Meu sangue tem a bravura/Dos touros de Portugal,/Temperada co’a brandura/Do chinês meridional./Meu peito é luso-chinês,/Meu génio sino-lusitano,/E toda a minha altivez/Sabe ter um trato lhano./Tenho um pouco de Camões/E defeitos lusitanos/E nalgumas ocasiões/Pensamentos confucianos”. - See more at: http://jtm.com.mo/opiniao/leonel-alves-pai/#sthash.7BAgTwYV.dpuf

“Sabem quem sou?/Meu pai era transmontano/Minha mãe china taoista/Eu cá sou, pois, euraseano/Cem por cento macaísta. /Meu sangue tem a bravura/Dos touros de Portugal,/Temperada co’a brandura/Do chinês meridional./Meu peito é luso-chinês,/Meu génio sino-lusitano,/E toda a minha altivez/Sabe ter um trato lhano./Tenho um pouco de Camões/E defeitos lusitanos/E nalgumas ocasiões/Pensamentos confucianos”. - See more at: http://jtm.com.mo/opiniao/leonel-alves-pai/#sthash.7BAgTwYV.dpuf

“Sabem quem sou?/Meu pai era transmontano/Minha mãe china taoista/Eu cá sou, pois, euraseano/Cem por cento macaísta. /Meu sangue tem a bravura/Dos touros de Portugal,/Temperada co’a brandura/Do chinês meridional./Meu peito é luso-chinês,/Meu génio sino-lusitano,/E toda a minha altivez/Sabe ter um trato lhano./Tenho um pouco de Camões/E defeitos lusitanos/E nalgumas ocasiões/Pensamentos confucianos”. - See more at: http://jtm.com.mo/opiniao/leonel-alves-pai/#sthash.7BAgTwYV.dpuf

O nosso livro (meu e do Ricardo Marques) "Diário de Coimbra" está publicado. Pode ser comprado aqui e também nesta página.

Back to basics: Walt Whitman

"BE simple and clear — Be not occult," the notes begin, and he then he wrote:  "I will not descend among professors and capitalists"

Emerson's Letter to Whitman 

21 July 
Concord Masstts. 1855 
Dear Sir,
I am not blind to the worth of the wonderful gift of "Leaves of Grass." I find it the most extraordinary piece of wit and wisdom that America has yet contributed. I am very happy in reading it, as great power makes us happy. It meets the demand I am always making of what seemed the sterile & stingy nature, as if too much handiwork or too much lymph in the temperament were making our western wits fat and mean. I give you joy of your free brave thought. I have great joy in it. I find incomparable things said incomparably well, as they must be. I find the courage of treatment, which so delights us, & which large perception only can inspire. I greet you at the beginning of a great career, which yet must have had a long foreground somewhere for such a start. I rubbed my eyes a little to see if this sunbeam were no illusion; but the solid sense of the book is a sober certainty. It has the best merits, namely of fortifying & encouraging. I did not know until I, last night, saw the book advertised in a newspaper, that I could trust the name as real and available for a post- office. I wish to see my benefactor, & have felt much like striking my tasks, & visiting New York to pay you my respects.

R. W. Emerson 

Mr. Walter Whitman. 
 
 

---

*This letter, which is probably the most famous letter in American literary history, is in the Feinberg Collection at the Library of Congress. It is reproduced in facsimile in Walt Whitman: A Selection of the Manuscripts, Books, and Association Items(Detroit: Detroit Public Library, 1955), a catalog of an exhibition held at the Detroit Public Library. It also appears in an accurate text in Walt Whitman: The Correspondence, ed. E. H. Miller (New York: New York Univ. Press, 1961),1, 41. 

WHO BE KIND TO

                                            BY Allen Ginsberg

Be kind to your self, it is only one
and perishable
of many on the planet, thou art that
one that wishes a soft finger tracing the
line of feeling from nipple to pubes--
one that wishes a tongue to kiss your armpit,
a lip to kiss your cheek inside your
whiteness thigh--
Be kind to yourself Harry, because unkindness
comes when the body explodes
napalm cancer and the deathbed in Vietnam
is a strange place to dream of trees
leaning over and angry American faces
grinning with sleepwalk terror over your
last eye--
Be kind to yourself, because the bliss of your own
kindness will flood the police tomorrow,
because the cow weeps in the field and the
mouse weeps in the cat hole--
Be kind to this place, which is your present
habitation, with derrick and radar tower
and flower in the ancient brook--
Be kind to your neighbor who weeps
solid tears on the television sofa,
he has no other home, and hears nothing
but the hard voice of telephones
Click, buzz, switch channel and the inspired
melodrama disappears
and he's left alone for the night, he disappears
in bed--
Be kind to your disappearing mother and
father gazing out the terrace window
as milk truck and hearse turn the corner
Be kind to the politician weeping in the galleries
of Whitehall, Kremlin, White House
Louvre and Phoenix City
aged, large nosed, angry, nervously dialing
the bald voice box connected to
electrodes underground converging thru
wires vaster than a kitten's eye can see
on the mushroom shaped fear-lobe under
the ear of Sleeping Dr. Einstein
crawling with worms, crawling with worms, crawling
with worms the hour has come--
Sick, dissatisfied, unloved the bulky
foreheads of Captain Premier President
Sir Comrade Fear!
Be kind to the fearful one at your side
Who's remembering the Lamentations
of the bible
the prophesies of the Crucified Adam Son
of all the porters and char men of
Bellgravia--
Be kind to your self who weeps under
the Moscow moon and hide your bliss hairs
under raincoat and suede Levi's--
For this is the joy to be born, the kindness
received thru strange eyeglasses on
a bus thru Kensington,
the finger touch of the Londoner on your thumb,
that borrows light from your cigarrette,
the morning smile at Newcastle Central
station, when longhair Tom blond husband
greets the bearded stranger of telephones--
the boom bom that bounces in the joyful
bowels as the Liverpool Minstrels of
CavernSink
raise up their joyful voices and guitars
in electric Afric hurrah
for Jerusalem--
The saints come marching in, Twist &
Shout, and Gates of Eden are named
in Albion again
Hope sings a black psalm from Nigeria,
and a white psalm echoes in Detroit
and reechoes amplified from Nottingham to Prague
and a Chinese psalm will be heard, if we all
live our lives for the next 6 decades--
Be kind to the Chinese psalm in the red transistor
in your breast--
Be kind to the Monk in the 5 Spot who plays
lone chord-bangs on his vast piano
lost in space on a bench and hearing himself
in the nightclub universe--
Be kind to the heroes that have lost their
names in the newspaper
and hear only their own supplications for
the peaceful kiss of sex in the giant
auditoriums of the planet,
nameless voices crying for kindness in the orchestra,
screaming in anguish that bliss come true
and sparrows sing another hundred years
to white haired babes
and poets be fools of their own desire--O Anacreon
and angelic Shelley!
Guide these new-nippled generations on space
ships to Mars' next universe
The prayer is to man and girl, the only
gods, the only lords of Kingdoms of
Feeling, Christs of their own
living ribs--
Bicycle chain and machine gun, fear sneer
& smell cold logic of the Dream Bomb
have come to Saigon, Johannesburg
Dominica City, Phnom Penh, Pentagon
Paris and Lhasa--
Be kind to the universe of Self that
trembles and shudders and thrills
in XX Century,
that opens its eyes and belly and breast
chained with flesh to feel
the myriad flowers of bliss
that I Am to Thee--
A dream! a Dream! I don't want to be alone!
I want to know that I am loved!
I want the orgy of our flesh, orgy
of all eyes happy, orgy of the soul
kissing and blessing its mortal-grown
body,
orgy of tenderness beneath the neck, orgy of
kindness to thigh and vagina
Desire given with meat hand
and cock, desire taken with
mouth and ass, desire returned
to the last sigh!
Tonite let's all make love in London
as if it were 2001 the years
of thrilling god--
And be kind to the poor soul that cries in
a crack of the pavement because he
has no body--
Prayers to the ghosts and demons, the
lackloves of Capitals & Congresses
who make sadistic noises
on the radio--
Statue destroyers & tank captains, unhappy
murderers in Mekong & Stanleyville,
That a new kind of man has come to his bliss
to end the cold war he has borne
against his own kind flesh
since the days of the snake.

RECORDANDO Cobain e a poética dos Nirvana... grande texto do Guardian. 

 e hiper-concerto aqui

Infelizmente acabou assim, violentamente como suas música e poesia:

This April 1994 photo provided by the Seattle Police Department shows a box of ammunition lying next to Kurt Cobain's foot at the scene of the musician's suicide, in Seattle

Filosofia de Waits

AQUI se vê como Waits é um genial visionário. É um tipo que tem música dentro, é possuído pela música.


Diz ele neste doc:
"I believe that all things really aspire to the condition of music, including films, stories... If it has music in it, then it has value. I don't think songs try to be films, I think films try to be songs. It's a pure form of expression, it's a very simple one, it's one that anyone can do. You don't need to have a lot of gear... kids write thousands of songs before they learn to talk. Everybody has music that they just are trying to get out."

	Dinosauria, we born like this into this as the chalk faces smile as Mrs. Death laughs as the elevators break as political landscapes dissolve as the supermarket bag boy holds a college degree as the oily fish spit out their oily prey as the sun is masked we are born like this into this into these carefully mad wars into the sight of broken factory windows of emptiness into bars where people no longer speak to each other into fist fights that end as shootings and knifings born into this into hospitals which are so expensive that it’s cheaper to die into lawyers who charge so much it’s cheaper to plead guilty into a country where the jails are full and the madhouses closed into a place where the masses elevate fools into rich heroes born into this walking and living through this dying because of this muted because of this castrated debauched disinherited because of this fooled by this used by this pissed on by this made crazy and sick by this made violent made inhuman by this the heart is blackened the fingers reach for the throat the gun the knife the bomb the fingers reach toward an unresponsive god the fingers reach for the bottle the pill the powder we are born into this sorrowful deadliness we are born into a government 60 years in debt that soon will be unable to even pay the interest on that debt and the banks will burn money will be useless there will be open and unpunished murder in the streets it will be guns and roving mobs land will be useless food will become a diminishing return nuclear power will be taken over by the many explosions will continually shake the earth radiated robot men will stalk each other the rich and the chosen will watch from space platforms Dante’s Inferno will be made to look like a children’s playground the sun will not be seen and it will always be night trees will die all vegetation will die radiated men will eat the flesh of radiated men the sea will be poisoned the lakes and rivers will vanish rain will be the new gold the rotting bodies of men will stink in the dark wind the last few survivors will be overtaken by new and hideous diseases and the space platforms will be destroyed by attrition the petering out of supplies the natural effect of general decay and there will be the most beautiful silence never heard born out of that. The sun still hidden there awaiting the next chapter.

wearing the collar, by Charles Bukowski

I live with a lady and four cats
and some days we all get
along.

some days I have trouble with
one of the
cats.

other days I have trouble with
two of the
cats.

other days,
three.

some days I have trouble with
all four of the
cats

and the
lady:

ten eyes looking at me
as if I was a dog.

(from You Get So Alone at Times that It Just Makes Sense)