domingo, 27 de outubro de 2013

Song of Myself

III

I have heard what the talkers were talking, the talk of the beginning and the end,
But I do not talk of the beginning or the end.

There was never any more inception than there is now,
Nor any more youth or age than there is now,
And will never be any more perfection than there is now,
Nor any more heaven or hell than there is now.

Urge and urge and urge,
Always the procreant urge of the world.

Out of the dimness opposite equals advance, always substance and increase,
                always sex,
Always a knit of identity, always distinction, always a breed of life.

To elaborate is no avail, learn´d and unlearn´d feel that it is so.

Sure as the most certain sure, plumb in the uprights, well entretied, braced in
                 the beams,
Stout as a horse, affectionate, haughty, electrical
I and this mystery here we stand.

Clear and sweet is my soul, and clear and sweet is all that is not my soul.

Lack one lacks both, and the unseen is proved by the seen,
Til that becomes unseen and receives proof in its turn. 

Showing the best and dividing it from the worst age vexes age,
Knowing the perfect fitness and equanimity of things, while they discuss I am
                silent, and go bathe and admire myself.

Welcome is every organ and attribute of me, and of any man hearty and
                 clean,
Not an inch nor a particle of an inch is vile, and none shall be less familiar
                 than the rest.

I am satisfied - I see, dance, laugh, sing;
As the hugging and loving bed-fellow sleeps at my side through the night,
                and withdraws at the peep of the day with stealthy tread,
Leaving me baskets cover´d with white towels swelling the house with their
                 plenty,
Shall I postpone my acceptation and realization and scream at my eyes,
That they turn from gazing after and down the road,
And forthwith cipher and show me to a cent,
Exactly the value of one and exactly the value of tow, and wich is ahead?  

Excerpt of Song of Myself by Wallt Whitman

sábado, 12 de outubro de 2013

Como todos os outros

Alguma coisa terá que sair.
Alguma coisa que agora impede
os fluxos naturais do corpo.
Estou a prender.
A prender a brutalidade do pensamento.
Transformo-o em sentir
afogado no músculo,
na veia que aperta
e desacelera.
Flutuo,
como todos os outros,
como todos nós.

Tiago C. Bôto 2013

terça-feira, 1 de outubro de 2013