anxiousreblog

[anxiousreblog]

Não sei como dizer-te que minha voz te procura e a atenção começa a florir, quando sucede a noite esplêndida e vasta. Não sei o que dizer, quando longamente teus pulsos se enchem de um brilho precioso e estremeces como um pensamento chegado. Quando, iniciado o campo, o centeio imaturo ondula tocado pelo pressentir de um tempo distante, e na terra crescida os homens entoam a vindima — eu não sei como dizer-te que cem ideias, dentro de mim, te procuram. ▫ Quando as folhas da melancolia arrefecem com astros ao lado do espaço e o coração é uma semente inventada em seu escuro fundo e em seu turbilhão de um dia, tu arrebatas os caminhos da minha solidão como se toda a casa ardesse pousada na noite. — E então não sei o que dizer junto à taça de pedra do teu tão jovem silêncio. Quando as crianças acordam nas luas espantadas que às vezes se despenham no meio do tempo — não sei como dizer-te que a pureza, dentro de mim, te procura. ▫ Durante a primavera inteira aprendo os trevos, a água sobrenatural, o leve e abstracto correr do espaço — e penso que vou dizer algo cheio de razão, mas quando a sombra cai da curva sôfrega dos meus lábios, sinto que me faltam um girassol, uma pedra, uma ave — qualquer coisa extraordinária. Porque não sei como dizer-te sem milagres que dentro de mim é o sol, o fruto, a criança, a água, o deus, o leite, a mãe, o amor, ▫ que te procuram.

Excerto do poema TRÍPTICO, in "A Colher na Boca", de Herberto Helder

[anxiousreblog]

“The Universe is the Practical Joke of the General at the expense of the Particular, quoth FRATER PERDURABO, and laughed. But those disciples nearest to him wept, seeing the Universal Sorrow. Those next to them laughed, seeing the Universal Joke. Below these certain disciples wept, Then certain laughed. Others next wept. Others next laughed. Next others wept. Next others laughed. Last came those that wept because they could not see the Joke, and those that laughed lest they should be thought not to see the Joke, and thought it safe to act like FRATER PERDURABO. But though FRATER PERDURABO laughed openly, He also at the same time wept secretly; and in Himself He neither laughed nor wept. Nor did He mean what He said.” ― Aleister Crowley, The Book of Lies

[anxiousreblog]

I, called Flora now, was Chloris: the first letter in Greek Of my name, became corrupted in the Latin language. I was Chloris, a nymph of those happy fields, Where, as you’ve heard, fortunate men once lived. It would be difficult to speak of my form, with modesty, But it brought my mother a god as son-in-law. It was spring, I wandered: Zephyrus saw me: I left. He followed me: I fled: he was the stronger, And Boreas had given his brother authority for rape By daring to steal a prize from Erechtheus’ house. Yet he made amends for his violence, by granting me The name of bride, and I’ve nothing to complain of in bed. I enjoy perpetual spring: the season’s always bright, The trees have leaves: the ground is always green. I’ve a fruitful garden in the fields that were my dower, Fanned by the breeze, and watered by a flowing spring. My husband stocked it with flowers, richly, And said: ��Goddess, be mistress of the flowers.” I often wished to tally the colors set there, But I couldn’t, there were too many to count. As soon as the frosted dew is shaken from the leaves, And the varied foliage warmed by the sun’s rays, The Hours gather dressed in colorful clothes, And collect my gifts in slender baskets. The Graces, straight away, draw near, and twine Wreaths and garlands to bind their heavenly hair. I was first to scatter fresh seeds among countless peoples, Till then the earth had been a single color.

[anxiousreblog]

Chloris eram quae Flora vocor: corrupta Latino nominis est nostri littera Graeca sono. Chloris eram, nymphe campi felicis, ubi audis rem fortunatis ante fuisse viris. quae fuerit mihi forma, grave est narrare modestae; sed generum matri repperit illa deum. ver erat, errabam; Zephyrus conspexit, abibam; insequitur, fugio: fortior ille fuit. et dederat fratri Boreas ius omne rapinae, ausus Erecthea praemia ferre domo. vim tamen emendat dando mihi nomina nuptae, inque meo non est ulla querella toro. [vere fruor semper: semper nitidissimus annus, arbor habet frondes, pabula semper humus.] est mihi fecundus dotalibus hortus in agris; aura fovet, liquidae fonte rigatur aquae: hunc meus implevit generoso flore maritus, atque ait “arbitrium tu, dea, floris habe.” saepe ego digestos volui numerare colores, nec potui: numero copia maior erat. roscida cum primum foliis excussa pruina est et variae radiis intepuere comae, conveniunt pictis incinctae vestibus Horae, inque leves calathos munera nostra legunt; protinus accedunt Charites, nectuntque coronas sertaque caelestes implicitura comas. prima per immensas sparsi nova semina gentes: unius tellus ante coloris erat.

Fasti 5: 195-214 by Ovid, Flora was the Mother of Flowers who was transformed from the nymph Chloris and who enabled the whole earth to blossom in spring:

[anxiousreblog]

[anxiousreblog]

[anxiousreblog]

[anxiousreblog]

the girl and the wooden horse torture

[anxiousreblog]

la colectioneuse

[anxiousreblog]

[anxiousreblog]

[anxiousreblog]

[anxiousreblog]

[anxiousreblog]

[anxiousreblog]

[anxiousreblog]