VERSÃO EM PORTUGUÊS
Este é um espaço aberto para leitura, publicação, divulgação e debate de Poemas e Poesias. Seu principal objetivo é oferecer aos membros do grupo de estudo um amplo espectro de obras de poetas e poetisas contemporâneos de Línguas Portuguesa, Inglesa, Espanhola e Francesa. O espaço, porém, oferecerá em breve muitos outros recursos, entre eles: seção de artigos sobre o tema "O que é Poesia?"; seção de artigos sobre outros temas relacionados à arte poética, incluindo tradução de poesias, crítica de poesias, estudos de verso e metrificação, ensaios lingüísticos, históricos ou filosóficos, manifestos e opiniões, com ênfase na evolução da poesia a partir do Modernismo; além disso oferecerá, a partir de Janeiro de 2013, crescente número de poesias de outros idiomas e também traduções e versões.
A PUBLICAÇÃO SERÁ FEITA TODAS ÀS SEXTAS-FEIRAS A PARTIR DE 07 DE DEZEMBRO DE 2012
Aguardem... e boa diversão!
This is an open space for reading, publication, dissemination and debate of Poems and Poems. Its main objective is to offer members of the study group a broad spectrum of works by contemporary poets and poetesses of Languages Portuguese, English, Spanish and French. The space, however, soon offers many other features, including: articles section on "What is Poetry?"; Articles section on other topics related to the art of poetry, including translations of poetry, criticism, poetry, studies of verse and versification, testing linguistic, historical or philosophical manifestos and opinions, with emphasis on the evolution of poetry from Modernism; furthermore offer, from January 2013, a growing number of poems from other languages as well as translations and versions .
PUBLICATION WILL BE MADE TO ALL FRIDAYS FROM
07 DECEMBER 2012
Wait ... and good fun!
Este es un espacio abierto para la lectura, publicación, difusión y debate de Poemas y Poesías.
Su principal objetivo es ofrecer a los miembros del grupo de estudio de un amplio abanico de obras de poetas y poetisas contemporáneos de las lenguas Portuguesa, Inglesa, Española y Francesa.
El espacio, sin embargo, ofrecerá en breve muchas otros recursos, entre otros: una sección de artículos sobre "¿Qué es poesía?"; y una sección de artículos sobre otros temas relacionados con el arte poética, incluyendo traducciones y crítica de poesías, estudios del verso y la versificación, ensayos lingüísticos, históricos o filosóficos, manifiestos y opiniones, con énfasis en la evolución de la poesía a partir del Modernismo.
A parte de esto, también ofrecerá a partir de enero de 2013, un número cada vez mayor de poemas en otros idiomas, así como traducciones y versiones.
PUBLICACIÓN SE HARÁ A TODOS LOS VIERNES DE
07 de diciembre 2012
Espera ... y buena diversión!
Il s'agit d'un espace ouvert pour la lecture, la publication, la diffusion et le débat des Poèmes et poésies. Son objectif principal est d'offrir aux membres du groupe d'étude d'un large éventail d'œuvres de poètes et poétesses contemporaines de langues portugais, anglais, espagnol et français. L'espace offre cependant bientôt de nombreuses autres fonctionnalités, y compris: section d'articles sur "Qu'est-ce que la poésie?"; Section articles sur d'autres sujets liés à l'art de la poésie, y compris des traductions de la poésie, de critique, de la poésie, des études de vers et de la versification, les tests manifestes linguistiques, historiques ou philosophiques et des avis, en mettant l'accent sur l'évolution de la poésie, du modernisme, de plus offrir, à partir de Janvier 2013, un nombre croissant de poèmes à partir d'autres langues ainsi que des traductions et des versions .
La publication sera faite à tous les VENDREDIS DE
7 décembre 2012
Attendez ... et bon amusement!
Upon the wind sheltered hillside,
the sharp tang of metal and the sting of salt air lay
over a field of blood-red poppies, no Flanders Field.
At years fall, fields of rape roll like waves,
in the harshness of winter-sleet, stray boulders bow;
like the backs of mothers, daughters sowing.
Their nails torn, ragged and bleeding.
They bleed by the moon, and son upon the field.
No white crosses mark their passing.
For hundreds of years, and crops of rape, barley and wheat;
small hands, soft hands, and soft thighs bleed.
They bleed daughters, and sons.
They birth the fields and in the fields by consent or rape;
unadorned by silver stars or purple hearts.
Today, as May's sun wakes the blood blasted pasture,
each precious drop blooms…..a heroines acknowledgement
the poppies yield.
(Edgar Allan Poe)
Once upon a midnight dreary , while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded , nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
"'’Tis some visitor", I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door-
- Only this and nothing more."
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; vainly I had sought to borrow
From my book surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore,
-For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore
-Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating:
"'’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door –
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door -;
- This it is and nothing more."
Presently my soul grew stronger: hesitating then no longer,
"Sir", said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you"- here I opened wide the door –
Darkness there and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering , long I stood there, wondering, fearing,
Doubting , dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore!"
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!"
Merely this and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning , all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping, something louder than before.
"Surely", said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice ;
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore, -
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore –
'Tis the wind and nothing more."
Open here I flung the shutter , when , with many a3 flirt and flutter ,
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore .
Not the least obeisance made he, not a minute stopped or stayed he,
But, with mien of lord or lady perched above my chamber door –
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door –
Perched and sat , and nothing more.
Then, this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore ,
"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven , thou", I said, "art sure no craven ,
Ghastly , grim , and ancient Raven, wandering from the nightly shore :
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore"
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly ,
Though its answer little meaning, little relevancy bore ;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door –
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door –
With such name as "Nevermore".
But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour .
Nothing farther then he uttered, not a feather then he fluttered28;
Till I scarcely more than muttered, "Other friends have flown before:
On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before."
Then the bird said, "Nevermore".
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
"Doubtless", said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore ,
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of 'Never- nevermore'."
But the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking , I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy , thinking what this ominous bird of yore,
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking "Nevermore".
This I sat engaged in guessing , but no syllabe expressing
To the fowl, whose fiery eyes now burned into my "bosom's" core ;
This and more I sat divining , with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er ,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!
Then, methought , the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
"Wretch", I cried, "thy41 God hath lent thee - by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite - respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore".
"Prophet!", said I, "thing of evil! - prophet still , if bird of devil! –
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore ,
Desolate yet all undaunted , on this desert land enchanted –
On this home by Horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore:
Is there - is there balm in Gilead ? - tell me - tell me, I implore!"
"Prophet!", said I, "thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird of devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us, by that God we both adore,
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn ,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore:
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."
"Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting :
"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath33 spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! quit the bust above my door!
Take thy41 beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"
And the Raven, never flitting , still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted - nevermore!
• Biography of Edgar Allan Poe Published in Book "Small Collection of Poems of the English Language", along with a study of this poetry. Copyright © André C S Masini, 2000.
Born in Boston - USA, in 1809, the son of theater actors. He became an orphan at an early age. It was created by a merchant, John Allan, in southern Virginia. As a child he lived in the UK for a period of 5 years. During a troubled youth, having been withdrawn from the University of Virginia for his tutor because of gambling debts, and expelled from the military academy, he published his first works in Boston Tamerlane and Other Poems (1827), Al Araaf Baltimore (1829) and New York Poems (1831). Back in Virginia had short career as an editor and journalist, and was fired for alcoholism. Continued throughout life changing cities without stabilize, but always gaining recognition as a poet, writer and critic. With the publication of The Raven (The Raven) (1845), won immediate fame throughout the country. The other poetic works are dormant (1831), Lenore (1831), and Annabel Lee (1849). Among tales and short stories stand out: Manuscript Found in a Bottle (1832), The Fall of the House of Usher (1839) the murders in the Rue Morgue (1841), The Mystery of Marie Roget (1842-1843), The Pit and the Pendulum (1842), The Golden Scarab (1843), The barrel of Amontillado (1846) and The Purloined Letter (1844). He died in Baltimore in 1849. Poe as nobody knew the intricacies, desires and fears of the human soul. Perhaps for this reason, its influence has reached such a wide range of writers and poets. The Raven is probably "the poem" unique among all poems ever written in the English language, from Beowulf through Shakespeare until today, which has caused more poetic responses in the last two centuries, among which are the translations of Machado de Assisi and Fernando Pessoa. Largely accepted that Poe is the creator of the stories of suspense and police. Some argue that the most fervent is also the father of science fiction, literary criticism of the new North American and symbolist poetry. Undeniable is its position as one of the greatest poets, writers and critics that the U.S. already had.
(by William E Henley)
Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate;
I am the captain of my soul.
William Ernest Henley was born in Gloucester, England, on August 23, 1849, eldest of six children, the son of a modest bookseller. Despite the difficult financial condition, his father managed to send it to a secondary school, Crypt Grammar School, who can not complete due to health and financial. He was only twelve years old when his arthritis was diagnosed due to the tubercle bacillus. At sixteen had his left leg amputated below the knee. In 1867, he lost his father, becoming the breadwinner for his widowed mother and his siblings. In 1869 he moved to London where he found work as a freelance journalist. In 1872 his illness compelled him to travel for treatment in Edinburgh, Scotland, where he wrote a collection of poems In Hospital and fell in love with Anna Boyle, with whom he would later marry. In 1875 he became a close friend of Robert Louis Stevenson who was taken to hospital to meet you. That same year was discharged and returned to London, where he became editor of London. In 1878 he married Anna Boyle with whom she had her only daughter, Margaret, in 1888, who died of meningitis just 5 years later. In 1889, he became editor of the Scots Observer, where that year, wrote a critique unfavorable The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde that triggered a famous controversy between them. Henley was a man enthusiastic, passionate and vehement opinions with intense emotions, and had discussions with many other contemporaries. He remained as editor Scots Observer (whose name was changed to "National Observer") until 1894, after which he lived in several English cities with his wife. He died in 1903 of tuberculosis.
The sorrow of love
(by William Butler Yeats)
The quarrel of the sparrows in the eaves,
The full round moon and the star-laden sky,
And the loud song of the ever-singing leaves,
Had hid away earth’s old and weary cry .
And then you came with those red mournful lips,
And with you came the whole of the world’s tears,
And all the trouble of her labouring ships,
And all the trouble of her myriad years.
And now the sparrows warring in the eaves,
The curd-pale moon, the white stars in the sky,
And the loud chaunting of the unquiet leaves,
Are shaken with earth’s old and weary cry.
William Butler Yeats was born in Dublin, Ireland, on June 13, 1865. The families of both parents, despite being in Ireland for over two hundred years, his prized English origin and Protestant, and his maternal grandfather one prosperous merchant. Yeats did not identify with their social class, the powerful minority Protestant displeasing him his excessive material concerns, but neither adopted Catholicism, the religion of the majority of the Irish population but instead sought to deepen cultural roots, ancient myths and folklore Ireland. Always made it clear that it was not an Irish poet and English, and actively participated in the movement for independence of the Republic of Ireland. In 1920 it approved the creation of the Irish Free State, which Yeats became senator in 1922. He married in 1917 to George Hyde-Lees and had two children. In 1923 he won the Nobel Prize for literature, the first Irishman to achieve it. He believed that political autonomy won by his country was not enough, and that the most important was the Irish cultural identity and independence in relation to materialism English. He proposed that the richness of Irish culture resided in his old ideal of living a country life reflected in legends and folk myths, and that this unique culture should be revived and preserved. These folk roots include a significant amount of mysticism and occultism, which are present in all the work of the poet, but they become even stronger with the maturation process. It was after his 50-year-old who wrote the poems universally regarded as his best work. Yeats produced until the end of his life, and died on January 28, 1939, at 74 years of age.
For my personal taste, Yeats is one of the greatest poets the world has ever seen, in any language and any time, and still increases my admiration to verify its rich and personal view of the world and the human saga, and the ability to defend and had require their opposites respect for their mystical ideas. The Sorrow Of Love is part of The Rose, published in 1893, and even being among his early work already reveals the unique musical quality of his poetry. Seems plausible that the poem was inspired by his unrequited love for Maud Gonne, about whom he wrote: "From that moment ... (The time when met) ... the restlessness of my life began. " (It is a conjecture, and found nothing about it in the work of scholars who consulted the poet.)
Tiger, tiger, burning bright,
In the forest of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?
And what shoulder, and what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
When thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand forged thy dread feet?
What the hammer? What the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? What dread grasp
Dared its deadly terrors clasp?
When the stars threw down their spears
And watered heaven with their tears,
Did He smile his work to see?
Did He who made the lamb make thee?
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
The author, William Blake was born in London in 1757, where he lived practically all his life, dying in 1827. He was the first of the great Romantic poets English, as well as painter, printer, and one of the greatest writers of English history.
William Blake wrote poetry since the age of eleven, so had his poems printed in 1792, under the title of "Poetical Sketches". The poems were spontaneous expression of an original genius and seen as a prodigy. The metric employed by it uses largely the blank verse that was a feature of creative Elizabethan era.
by Matthew Arnold
What is it to grow old?
Is it to lose the glory of the form,
The lustre of the eye?
Is it for beauty to forego her wreath?
Yes, but not for this alone.
Is it to feel our strength—
Not our bloom only, but our strength—decay?
Is it to feel each limb
Grow stiffer, every function less exact,
Each nerve more weakly strung?
Yes, this, and more! but not,
Ah, 'tis not what in youth we dreamed 'twould be!
'Tis not to have our life
Mellowed and softened as with sunset-glow,
A golden day's decline!
'Tis not to see the world
As from a height, with rapt prophetic eyes,
And heart profoundly stirred;
And weep, and feel the fulness of the past,
The years that are no more!
It is to spend long days
And not once feel that we were ever young.
It is to add, immured
In the hot prison of the present, month
To month with weary pain.
It is to suffer this,
And feel but half, and feebly, what we feel:
Deep in our hidden heart
Festers the dull remembrance of a change,
But no emotion—none.
It is—last stage of all—
When we are frozen up within, and quite
The phantom of ourselves,
To hear the world applaud the hollow ghost
Which blamed the living man.
Although remembered now for his elegantly argued critical essays, Matthew Arnold (1822-1888) began his career as a poet, winning early recognition as a student at the Rugby School where his father, Thomas Arnold, had earned national acclaim as a strict and innovative headmaster. Arnold also studied at Balliol College, Oxford University. In 1844, after completing his undergraduate degree at Oxford, he returned to Rugby as a teacher of classics. After marrying in 1851, Arnold began work as a government school inspector, a grueling position which nonetheless afforded him the opportunity to travel throughout England and the Continent. Throughout his thirty-five years in this position Arnold developed an interest in education, an interest which fed into both his critical works and his poetry. Empedocles on Etna (1852) and Poems (1853) established Arnold's reputation as a poet and in 1857 he was offered a position, which he accepted and held until 1867, as Professor of Poetry at Oxford. Arnold became the first professor to lecture in English rather than Latin. During this time Arnold wrote the bulk of his most famous critical works, Essays in Criticism (1865) and Culture and Anarchy (1869), in which he sets forth ideas that greatly reflect the predominant values of the Victorian era.
Meditative and rhetorical, Arnold's poetry often wrestles with problems of psychological isolation. In "To Marguerite—Continued," for example, Arnold revises Donne's assertion that "No man is an island," suggesting that we "mortals" are indeed "in the sea of life enisled." Other well-known poems, such as "Dover Beach," link the problem of isolation with what Arnold saw as the dwindling faith of his time. Despite his own religious doubts, a source of great anxiety for him, in several essays Arnold sought to establish the essential truth of Christianity. His most influential essays, however, were those on literary topics. In "The Function of Criticism" (1865) and "The Study of Poetry" (1880) Arnold called for a new epic poetry: a poetry that would address the moral needs of his readers, "to animate and ennoble them." Arnold's arguments, for a renewed religious faith and an adoption of classical aesthetics and morals, are particularly representative of mainstream Victorian intellectual concerns. His approach—his gentlemanly and subtle style—to these issues, however, established criticism as an art form, and has influenced almost every major English critic since, including T. S. Eliot, Lionel Trilling, and Harold Bloom. Though perhaps less obvious, the tremendous influence of his poetry, which addresses the poet's most innermost feelings with complete transparency, can easily be seen in writers as different from each other as W. B. Yeats, James Wright, Sylvia Plath, and Sharon Olds. Late in life, in 1883 and 1886, Arnold made two lecturing tours of the United States. Matthew Arnold died in Liverpool in 1888.