quinta-feira, 23 de junho de 2011

Langston Hughes

Langston Hughes was a prolific writer. In the forty-odd years between his first book in 1926 and his death in 1967, he devoted his life to writing and lecturing. He wrote sixteen books of poems, two novels, three collections of short stories, four volumes of "editorial" and "documentary" fiction, twenty plays, children's poetry, musicals and operas, three autobiographies, a dozen radio and television scripts and dozens of magazine articles. In addition, he edited seven anthologies.
Langston Hughes died of cancer on May 22, 1967. His residence at 20 East 127th Street in Harlem, New York has been given landmark status by the New York City Preservation Commission. His block of East 127th Street was renamed "Langston Hughes Place" .

One of his poems:


Democracy will not come
Today, this year
Nor ever
Through compromise and fear.

I have as much right
As the other fellow has
To stand
On my two feet
And own the land.

I tire so of hearing people say,
Let things take their course.
Tomorrow is another day.
I do not need my freedom when I'm dead.
I cannot live on tomorrow's bread.

Is a strong seed
In a great need.

I live here, too.
I want freedom
Just as you.

Posted by Aline Barbosa

My first Indriso

Guitar without strings

A guitar without strings standing, 
Inert without moaning wails joy or smile,
just as bones that do not cry bitter six feet of earth

without the glare of the spotlight;
the clamor of the crowds echoing in its wake;
no cries echo in the empty stage an infinite void;

no hands to touch him; just wood useless.

as a body without a soul, as a life without purpose.

Written by Antonio Deodato Marques Leão

terça-feira, 21 de junho de 2011

another poem by Elizabeth Bishop

Tomorrow I will travel and, unfortanatelly, I won't go to class and I couldn't to honor my dear collegues. Anyway, I'll leave here another poem of our dear Elizabeth Bishop.
I hope you enjoy it!!!!!
Kisses, Pollianna Modesto.

A Prodigal

The brown enormous odor he lived by
was too close, with its breathing and thick hair,
for him to judge. The floor was rotten; the sty
was plastered halfway up with glass-smooth dung.
Light-lashed, self-righteous, above moving snouts,
the pigs' eyes followed him, a cheerful stare--
even to the sow that always ate her young--
till, sickening, he leaned to scratch her head.
But sometimes mornings after drinking bouts
(he hid the pints behind the two-by-fours),
the sunrise glazed the barnyard mud with red
the burning puddles seemed to reassure.
And then he thought he almost might endure
his exile yet another year or more.

But evenings the first star came to warn.
The farmer whom he worked for came at dark
to shut the cows and horses in the barn
beneath their overhanging clouds of hay,
with pitchforks, faint forked lightnings, catching light,
safe and companionable as in the Ark.
The pigs stuck out their little feet and snored.
The lantern--like the sun, going away--
laid on the mud a pacing aureole.
Carrying a bucket along a slimy board,
he felt the bats' uncertain staggering flight,
his shuddering insights, beyond his control,
touching him. But it took him a long time
finally to make up his mind to go home.

segunda-feira, 20 de junho de 2011

Robert Lee Frost

Fire and Ice

    Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice

Posted by Juliana Bastos

sexta-feira, 17 de junho de 2011

Wiliiam Blake (1757 - 1827)


LIVERGOOD, Norma D. William Blake as mystic. Disponível em: http://www.hermes-press.com/blake.htm. Acesso em 10 jun 2011.

THE TYGER. Disponível em: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki//The_Tyger. Acesso em 11 jun 2011.

ANALYSIS AND COMENTARY OF THE TYGER BY WILLIAM BLAKE. Disponível em: http://mural.uv.es/ewilcan/blake.html. Acesso em 10 jun 2011.


quarta-feira, 15 de junho de 2011

Emily Dickinson Museum.

I will tell the truth: I could never really understand her poems... Some of them are really beautiful, and in a personal perspective they talk to me deeply. But when I try to rationalize it... it is almost impossible. However, even the critics, the people specialized in literature have problems with it, so I'm not that bad, I guess.

Emily's manuscripts

Emily Dickinson wrote most of her poems alone in her room, and she did not want much publicity, maybe she was insecure, or maybe it was difficult to be a poet during her lifetime, we don't know... 
She wrote over 1.800 poems (oh my GOD!) and just few, really few of them were published in life.
As this domestic environment was almost 100% of the poets life, the University of Amherst created a museum with part of the Dickinson's family properties: the house where Emily lived and her brother's house.

The Homestead, 1858 lithograph

The Emily Dickinson Museum comprises two historic houses in the center of Amherst, Massachusetts associated with the poet Emily Dickinson and members of her family during the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. The Homestead was the birthplace and home of the poet Emily Dickinson. The Evergreens, next door, was home to her brother Austin, his wife Susan, and their three children.
Emily Dickinson Museum logo
The Museum was created in 2003 when the two houses merged under the ownership of Amherst College. Its mission is to educate diverse audiences about Emily Dickinson’s life, family, creative work, times, and enduring relevance, and to preserve and interpret the Homestead and The Evergreens as historical resources for the benefit of scholars and the general public.
In just a few short years the Emily Dickinson Museum has established a vibrant presence and ambitious program for encouraging a broad appreciation for this remarkable poet's unparalleled work.  A few of the Museum's most noteworthy accomplishments include:
  • creating four distinctive tours that present the story of Emily Dickinson from a variety of engaging perspectives.
  • designing lively programs--from poetry marathons and an annual 19th-century children's circus to rock concerts, lectures and hands-on workshops--to attract a wide and diverse audience.
  • installing the Museum's first professionally-designed interpretive exhibit, "my Verse is alive," about the early publication of Dickinson's poetry.
  • establishing a national program of intensive professional development workshops for K-12 teachers.
  • completing a series of planning documents to guide long-term restoration of both historic houses and the grounds.
  • restoring the Homestead's exterior to its authentic Dickinson-era color scheme.
  • enhancing the mechanical systems, fire detection systems, and drainage systems to promote long-term safety and preservation of the historic houses and collections.

For those who want to know more about it, please access http://www.emilydickinsonmuseum.org/

And that's all folks,
Bárbara Prado

Sylvia, The movie

As we saw in class, Sylvia Plath was an extremally confessional poet. Her art if full of references to her own life and children... to her husband, to her own carrer. For those who don't know, Sylvia commited suicide in 1963.

Sylvia and her kids.

If you are interested in her life, I've been for some time, you can watch the movie Sylvia.
Although not a master piece, the movie tells in a simple manner tha complicated life of the poet. Since when she met her future hurband for the first time, during College at Cambridge University, until her suicide, the movie shows her insatisfaction with the press during the first years of her carrer, her deep sadness evoluting to depression, her unhealthy relationship with her husband, Ted Hughes, also a poet, the life with her kids. It is a good point to start knowing her.

Real Sylvia

Gwyneth as Sylvia

They could have chosen a better actress to interpret her than the lack of talent  Gwyneth Paltrow, but we forgive them, rsrsrs. The girl did her best.

Real couple: Sylvia Plath and Ted Hughes

Movie couple: Gwyneth Paltrow and Daniel Craig

Here is a good review on the movie. And here, a wonderful text about her, in portuguese.

And that's all, folks.
Bárbara Prado

The Ghost Song, by Jim Morrison

As we have presented in class today, The Ghost Song is a song performed by Jim Morrison (1943 - 1971), with music by The Doors, a band from the 1960’s that is still very well known until nowadays. However, its lyrics was originally conceived by Morrison as a poem, which he wrote and recorded like a recital in a poetry session. It was strongly influenced by an event that occured during his childhood, in which he witnessed an accident that killed many Indians. Here it is:

Shake dreams from your hair
my pretty child, my sweet one.
Choose the day and choose the sign of your day
the day's divinity
First thing you see.

A vast radiant beach and cooled jeweled moon
Couples naked race down by it's quiet side
And we laugh like soft, mad children
Smug in the wooly cotton brains of infancy
The music and voices are all around us.
Choose they croon the Ancient Ones
the time has come again
choose now, they croon
beneath the moon
beside an ancient lake

Enter again the sweet forest

Enter the hot dream
Come with us
everything is broken up and dances.

Indians scattered, 
On dawn's highway bleeding
Ghosts crowd the young child's, 
Fragile eggshell mind

We have assembled inside, 
This ancient and insane theater
To propagate our lust for our life, 
And flee the swarming wisdom of the streets.

The barns have stormed 
The windows kept,
And only one of all the rest 
To dance and save us 
From the divine mockery of words,
Music inflames temperament. 

Ooh great creator of being 
Grant us one more hour, 
To perform our art 
And perfect our lives. 

We need great golden copulations.

When the true kings murders 
Are allowed to roam free,
A thousand magicians arise in the land. 
Where are the feast we are promised?

One more thing

Thank you oh lord
For the white blind light
Thank you oh lord
For the white blind light

A city rises from the sea
I had a splitting headache
From which the future's made.

Then, in 1978, seven years after Morrison's death, his mates from The Doors decided to turn it into a song, mixing his voice from the poetry recording session together with a melody. The result can be heard in the video provided in the link below: 

Posted by Fernanda Pedrecal and Marcos Costa

The tumult in the heart
keeps asking questions.
And then it stops and undertakes to answer
in the same tone of voice.
No one could tell the difference.

Uninnocent, these conversations start,
and then engage the senses,
only half-meaning to.
And then there is no choice,
and then there is no sense;

until a name
and all its connotation are the same.

Elizabeth Bishop

My apresentation will be about Elizabeth Bishop, so I brought to you a poem wrote by her to ilustrate it.

Jackie Kay: Interview

Jackie Kay, born in Edinburgh, Scotland in 1961 to a Scottish mother and a Nigerian father, is unabashedly lesbian. Tracing her roots, she eventually met her biological daddy in a hotel room in Abuja. But it was no sweet re-union of father and daughter. Adopted by a white couple at birth and brought up in Glasgow, she studied at the Royal Scottish Academy of Music and Drama and Stirling University where she read English, and has over the years garnered a string of awards for her literary exploits, starting with The Adoption Papers (1991), a collection of poetry that deals with an adopted child's search for a cultural identity. Associate Editor, Taiwo Ogundipe
 had a chat with her during her recent visit to Nigeria as a resource person at the writers' workshop organized by Farafina Trust in collaboration with Nigeria’s celebrated writer, Chimamanda Adichie.

Let’s have some insight into your family background in the interestingly unconventional but stimulating home setting, as an observer once described it.
I grew up with my mum and dad, a Scottish socialist. My childhood was like a calendar of events. In January we would celebrate Burns’ Day, which is Robert Burns’, the Scottish poet’s birthday. In May, we would do May Day. On New Year Day, we used to sing all kinds of songs. We also used to have political marches. We just had great time. I grew up with a very political understanding of the world and also it was a lot of fun.

Did you grow up to feel any bitterness towards your biological parents for allowing you to be adopted by other parents?
I don’t feel bitterness, because when a woman gives her baby out, it must be a very hard thing to do. I’ve got a baby myself, a 21 year old son. I find it difficult giving him up, I couldn’t have done it.

During your reading on stage a while ago, you talked about the unusual attitude exhibited by your father, who had long been separated from you, during your meeting in an Abuja hotel room. Tell us more about this.
I was a bit shocked at first because he spent the whole time trying to persuade me to move to his church rather than just tell me what it was like meeting my mother, tell me a bit about himself, a bit about his family and a bit about his children. I was expecting that kind of personal conversation. However, he started the conversion with everything about God, and trying to get me to join his denomination of the born again Christian church. That was in a way deeply disturbing to me. He was trying to cleanse me, because he saw me as a sinner. It was traumatic for me although I told it on stage during my reading as a kind of funny story because I like to protect people from such trauma. I think one should always be careful with an audience because people are vulnerable. The experience was deeply upsetting and I did come back to Nigeria the last time, questioning the meaning of everything.

How do you currently feel about the whole thing?
Now I feel a lot better because I have lots of very great Nigerian friends. I have people who have appreciated and welcomed me.

You were quoted somewhere as saying that your initial ambition was to become an actress. How do you think that would have turned out? Were you passionate about it?
I love acting. And I loved the idea because I’ve got a side to my personality that is very extrovert. The interesting thing about being a writer is that you have to be both of an introvert and an extrovert. It’s a kind of Jekyll and Hyde personality in a way. I used to go for auditions for parts but at one time a woman said to me, I am sorry you are very good at acting but you are just the wrong colour. So, I decided I will write. The first thing I ever wrote were plays about black people who came from different countries where I gave them complex characters to play because I was fed up with black people always having one dimensional roles to play.

Do you feel nostalgic about your acting stint?
Yeah, I do, I feel nostalgic about the stage, the red curtain, encore. I did love to be an actress.

The theme of an adopted child searching for cultural identity characterises your first major work, a collection of poetry entitled The Adoption Papers, which seems biographical considering your own life story. Would you say you have found your own identity now and stopped searching?
Yeah, I don’t think I ever stopped when I published it years ago. It’s an ongoing story. It never finishes. Even as I speak the scenes are unfolding about my story, things I just learnt yesterday or the day before. It doesn’t ever finish. It doesn’t have any resolution, and it is a mistake to think that the story has ended. What you can do is to embrace it as an ongoing story and see a positive thing in it. And, I say it is quite an exciting thing to be adopted. You have two sets of parents. You have two potential different lives. It’s a writer’s dream in a lot of ways.

You said you are going to write about your experience up to date.
Yes, it going to come out next year, it is going to be published in May. It is entitled Red Dust Road.
Your first novel, Trumpet is also characterized by a form of identity crisis, which is sexual. It was said to be inspired by the life of a male musician who was discovered to be in fact a woman when he died. What informed this?
I’m fascinated in people who want to shift and take on different identities. And I’m very interested in the fluidity of identity. I am a gay woman myself. I am openly gay and I like being a little bit different, I like being a lesbian. It’s been fun, I found women very attractive. But more than that, I like to imagine myself in the shoes of different people. Being a writer is all about putting yourself in other people’s shoes. That is the first rule of writing. You imagine what are these shoes like? What does it feel like being in them? I find these endlessly fascinating.

A critic once described you as a writer who has moved from being a marginal voice to being a national treasure, do you consider the MBE Award given to you as an affirmation of this?
The MBE is an award from the queen. I had to agonize over it. The award tags one as a member of the British Empire and being Scottish, it is problematic for me politically. But, on the other hand, I know for you to have been put forward for an MBE, there are lots of people in the poetic community that have recommended you and if you refuse it, you will actually be turning down their voice. Actually, you can have a bit more power to do good if you accept such award. So I gave it a lot of thoughts and I decided to accept the award. And I was pleased to get it.

Are you yearning for a similar Nigerian recognition, being your country of paternal origin?
Yes, I would like people to see me as a Nigerian. My mother was Scottish. In Scotland, the country recognizes me as Scottish. In Nigeria the country also recognizes me as Nigerian because I am half Nigerian, half Scottish. Yeah, I’m not going to be an African writer in the way that some writers are African writers because what I write about is limited by my experience. If Nigerians will open their arms to me, I will open my arms to them. In fact, I’ve already opened my arms to Nigeria and I will like Nigeria to open its arms to me. Yesterday, I was at the market and I was telling some guys about going to my father’s village and when I mentioned the name of the village, they exclaimed, "you are my sister, you are my sister". And that was so moving and loving for me because after having been made invisible by a father who would not acknowledge you, it was so very nice to get acknowledgement from other people.

How much of Nigerian writings are you conversant with?
A lot, yeah, one of the poems I have ever read was by Wole Soyinka, Telephone Conversation. It was in school and nobody in the class could understand the meaning of the poem. I understood the poem and people used to ask me in school, "Are you both of the same colour. It was weird but people used to ask me. I understood the poem and it was a kind of revelation to me.

How did you meet Chimamanda?
She was coming to London and I was asked to interview and present her as a guest before a live audience during a programme. I already knew her work. So I just reread it, then I interviewed her. It was quite a close, intimate interview. A lot of people said it was a most-relaxing and open-ended thing. After that, I was asked to do a bit of scripting in Newcastle and I interviewed her there as well. And at one time, we were all in London. We were both so all-together. I mean with Chimamanda - we kind of struck of a chord right away. She’s been an amazingly inspiring person and she’s a very self-possessed young woman. And she’s got an incredible talent. And I think she’s incredibly generous with her talent, which is unusual, because a lot of writers are just in it for themselves. To most, it’s an ego thing. For her to have collaborated with the Farafina Trust in bringing all of us here for this workshop, she’s doing something to help others. I think that’s an incredible thing. I am personally grateful to her for giving me an opportunity to reach the Nigerian audience through the workshop. She’s magical and mysterious. She makes things happen. She’s a treasure we should all be thankful to.

Which of the genres are you most comfortable with?
I just think of myself as a writer. So, whichever book I’m writing, I’m writing my best. I’ve written probably more of poetry. I think probably more people think of me as a poet.

You were also described in one write-up as having a deep love of jazz music. Has music had any influence on your writing?
Yes to an extent. Music represents unsayable things. It speaks to the silences. So, I like the things you can say and the things you can’t say.

How do you motivate yourself to write? What is your writing regime like?
Oh well, I always have a writing regime I mean to stick to but I’m not very disciplined in it.

Do your writings reflect your real life situations?
That comes to me as an interesting question. I am interested in the dichotomy between one thing and the other. And because when you are adopted, you have an imaginary mother and a real mother. And your real mother is actually the adopted mother. So people say to you, how do you know your real mother? You’ll say your real mother is the one that brought me up. So, I think when you are adopted, you question the notion of what makes real and what makes imaginary, what makes fact, what makes fiction, what makes your own country, what makes another country. Where is the border? And to me the interesting things go on in the border between the ordinary and the extraordinary, the real and the strange, the fact and the fiction. That’s back. I’m also a highly imaginative person. I don’t think if I haven’t been brought up in the way I have been, I don’t know if I would have been a writer.

Tell us about your son
He is lovely. He is pursuing a Spanish degree. I imagine he might be a film director or he might go into writing. I don’t know what he’ll do. But whatever he’ll do, he’ll do it well because he’s a young man of credible self-possession. I believe he is going to turn out a more special person than I am. He is 21 years old now.

What is your overall vision? Are you aiming to win the Nobel Prize in future?
(Laughs) No, I’m not hoping for that.

Why? Are you saying winning award is a bad idea like some writers do say?
I don’t know if it’s good or bad but I’m superstitious. I don’t know if it’s a good idea to think about what award I should get. But I’m not really too worried about awards. I’m more worried about if I could find a way to bring into the world the books that I want to bring into the world. It’s a bit like you bring children into the world. And you want these books to be cherished and loved by readers. And readers are more important than any awards. Honestly, they are. So if a reader comes up and presents to me ‘this book’, this means such a lot to me. That’s why I write. I don’t really write to get prizes. If prizes happen, that’s a bonus. It’s not really important in my thinking. I’m not really thinking in advance about that

What do you essentially want to achieve with your writing?
I want to achieve a conversation with my readers, to really get along like we are in a setting with a glass of wine together, intimate, revelatory, where both of us can have a moment of epiphany, where both of us can discover and recognise something that we hadn’t known before, where both of us can be surprised.

Presentation's References

Contemporary Writers. In: British Council. Available: < http://www.contemporarywriters.com/authors/?p=auth54 > Access: June, 11, 2011.

Gender Forum: An Internet Journal for Gender Studies. Available in: < http://www.genderforum.org/no_cache/issues/raceing-questions-iii/the-body-is-a-bloody-battlefield/> Access: June, 13, 2011.

segunda-feira, 13 de junho de 2011

Answer to a Sonnet by John Keats

Now I know I laughed for no reason
I hope God understands me
Maybe it was a trick by the demon
Oh! Finally now I can see!

Now sad and alone no more!
That mortal pain I’ll never fell
Live in the darkness? What for?
Enjoy life is a much better deal

I answer again: I laughed for no reason
And must there be a reason to laugh?
I left behind the rainy season
Threw away all the sad photographs.

Verse, fame and beauty can stimulate adrenalin
But laughing is still the best medicine!

By Fernanda Pedrecal and Marcos Costa

domingo, 12 de junho de 2011

William Blake (1757 - 1827)

And did those feet in ancient time
Walk upon England's mountains green:
And was the holy Lamb of God
On England's pleasant pastures seen?

And did the Countenance Divine
Shine forth upon our clouded hills?
And was Jerusalem builded here,
Among these dark Satanic Mills?

Bring me my Bow of Burning gold:
Bring me my Arrows of desire:
Bring me my Spear: O clouds unfold:
Bring me my Chariot of fire:

I will not cease from Mental Fight
Nor shall my Sword sleep in my hand:
Till we have built Jerusalem,
In England's green & pleasant land.
William Blake (1757 - 1827)

The poem Jerusalem (1804), by William Blake, is actually an excerpt from the preface to one of his "prophetic books", Milton.
Jerusalem is here the symbolic residence of a humanity freed of the inter-related chains of commerce, British imperialism, and war. Blake's "mental fight" is directed against these chains.  In his Blake: Prophet Against Empire, David Erdman tells us that Blake's "dark, Satanic Mills" are "mills that produce dark metal,
iron and steel, for diabolic purposes . . . . London  . . . was a war arsenal and the hub of the machinery of war, and Blake uses the symbol in that sense."iron and steel, for diabolic purposes . . . . London  . . . was a war arsenal and the hub of the machinery of war, and Blake uses the symbol in that sense."


Fansan Paul Adewale

He is a wonderful nigerian poet. He describes very well the feelings, pride to be an african and  his dream to see Africa a reference to the others nations.


My Africa My Africa My Africa
My Africa of which everybody imitates
My Africa of which culture exceed the Greek
My Africa of which everyone is jealous of

My Africa My Africa My Africa
My Africa of enormous natural endowment
My Africa of Non-Violence
My Africa of Amorous populates

My Africa My Africa My Africa
My Africa of patriot men and women
My Africa of shelter and vintage hospitality
My Africa of great ancestral mythology

My Africa My Africa My Africa
My Africa that bore fruits of black diamonds
My Africa which is a gift to the whole world
My Africa of great leadership

My Africa My Africa My Africa
My Africa of learned youths
My Africa of a bright generation
My Africa true tradition

My Africa My Africa My Africa
My Africa of black pageant women
My Africa of strong men
My Africa from who we all hail from
For every African deserves a Nobel Prize in

Failure hunts us
Confused and glazed
Looking into vacancy
As the sun struggle to peep out
From the morning cloud
So we struggle against our unseen failure

Wouldn’t there be a time we too
Throw caution into winds?
Duty for children seems like chains of slavery
Prisoner of our own flesh and blood
We sometimes feel lovely
But with fake enthusiasm

Motherhood as a sorrowful journey
Motherhood as fighting a ghost
In their whining whispers weeps
Those teeth, those teeth, those teeth
Teeth that suppose to be their pride are neglected

There will be a time when
The splendour of your beauty will showcase
These roses that are neglected
These roses that are discomforted
These roses that are ugly

The skill of her peculiar stone
For you coloured love and erased hatred
All for the unworthy infants
Was is a cowardice that you protected us
But little did we see in nature that is ours

Mothers even in death had no peace
You made the world to be a grassier road
Before her wandering feet
Busy old fools giving shelters to the unholy ones
Shine here to us and thou art everywhere

We and the labouring world are passing by
Like the pale water in their wintry race
Leave and depend on those lonely face
Like water enters a coconut without any knowledge
So our mother watch us without father

Father in the south with his working doctrine
Mother at the north to lull us to sleep
When day hides
Mother stay awake
When day breaks
Mother stay awake
I will rather come from a woman again
Children crying on top of their voice
Like wind whistling through the window.

Posted by Antonio Deodato

sábado, 11 de junho de 2011

The unknighty horse

under the blazin´sun
of Nordeste of amaralina
lies a black horse
waiting peacefully  for his
tied to a blue
swift prison
fragile as his soul
hopefull, tough.
Adriano Nevez,Lis Machado, Mauricio, Mariluce Lemos

quarta-feira, 8 de junho de 2011

African Poets

Summary. Today, 08/06 we saw at the poetry class the African Poets. Two of them are Gcina Mhlophe and Wole Sayinka. I will talk a little bit about the first one. She is from the South Africa and was born in 1959. She has a huge bibliography and appeared in many documentaries and was also indicated to some awards. She is a “freedom fighter, activist, poet, author, storyteller, and other things. She is one of the few women that have “power”, at least by writing, over some dominate men. Her poetry is made to the development of the country, to help people to grow in some way, help the children to read. She uses to tell her stories in four different languages, and one of them is English.

(Posted By Lis Machado)

terça-feira, 7 de junho de 2011

The blue chair and the horse

The chair is blue
The horse is black

The fields are green
And I am here

I'm stopped in my dirty place
I have no force to fight

I have no force to fight for my life
How can I have hope?

The animals are in jails
And men are observing them
Who are we?

Who are people?
Nobody can't see me in my lonely jorney

By Cecília,Évelim and Naiana

segunda-feira, 6 de junho de 2011

Unknown Freedom

A horse tied to a plastic chair
Is free to go anywhere
It doesn't move though
Because nobody told him so

Fernanda Pedrecal and Marcos Costa

domingo, 5 de junho de 2011

Love is blind

Nobody sees
What I see
You are so beautiful
Even if it is only for me

Nobody knows
What I know
I see what really matters
There is no letters

Nobody understands
They can't stand
Love is blind
And takes me out of my mind

Everybody thinks I'm crazy
But I don't care
I love you
There's nothing they can do

Aline Queiroz
Mariana Aldir

William Carlos Williams

The Young Housewife
At ten AM the young housewife
moves about in negligee behind
the wooden walls of her husband's house.
I pass solitary in my car.

Then again she comes to the curb
to call the ice-man, fish-man, and stands
shy, uncorseted, tucking in
stray ends of hair, and I compare her
to a fallen leaf.

The noiseless wheels of my car
rush with a crackling sound over
dried leaves as I bow and pass smiling. 
(Posted by Rafaela Souza)

Ezra Pound

      IKE a skein of loose silk blown against a wall
      She walks by the railing of a path in Kensington Gardens,
      And she is dying piece-meal
      of a sort of emotional anemia.
      And round about there is a rabble
      Of the filthy, sturdy, unkillable infants of the very poor.
      They shall inherit the earth.
      In her is the end of breeding.
      Her boredom is exquisite and excessive.
      She would like some one to speak to her,
      And is almost afraid that I
      will commit that indiscretion. 
      (Posted by Rafaela Souza)