isabelarcheryoufool - Tumblr blog

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Look, I’ve got a gun out there in my purse. Up until now I’ve been forgivin’ and forgettin’ because of the way I was brought up, but I’ll tell you one thing.

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Lilly Tomlin

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isadora duncan by arnold genthe; edit by sookietex

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“In case of consumption…” Physiology for beginners. 1908. 

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Just realized I never shared a scan of the clementine illustration I did a few weeks ago. Such a sweet, bright subject with a special meaning behind it for the clients — I loved making it and being a part of the story. 🧡🍂🍊

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[isabelarcheryoufool]

Perdi pais e país

Nenhuma referência a Bishop:

Poeta e sapatão de direita.

Pra não dizer nenhuma

Talvez só está aqui:

Desde então tenho uma sede

Cabulosa

Boa de não sei que bebida.

Queria inalar a fumaça do silêncio

Dormir como quem dorme domingo de

Carnaval

Acordar

Atada à língua portuguesa

Pelos pés e pela mãe

Atada, mas não imóvel.

Não devo nada.

Muito menos a esta língua

(Catarrenta e côxa)

Como os pais que perdi

E que nunca me deram

Porra nenhuma.

Queria abrir a janela que dá para o pátio central do silêncio

Mas estou deitada no chão do quarto

(Domingo de carnaval)

E a única coisa que carrego comigo

Na qual me enrolo como bandeira natal

É ai que preguiça

Adivinho o som dos aviões que cortam o céu como quem corta os pulsos

Sem pais nem país

Deitada no chão espero a noite

E escuto os aviões sem vê-los

Há menos estrelas nesse céu

Nessa pátria menos amores

Às vezes eu olho à noite e noto que

Inconscientemente

Trago a mão ao coração

Como que entoando um hino vazio

Para a pátria pária

De porra nenhuma

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Le Bonheur | Agnès Varda | 1965

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Young Women in Boat   -    Marie Laurencin , 1929.

French,  1833-1956

watercolor on cardboard, 24 x 32.5 cm

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[isabelarcheryoufool]

🥂 https://www.instagram.com/booksididnt

🍷 https://twitter.com/booksididnt

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In Memory of W. B. Yeats by W. H. Auden

I

He disappeared in the dead of winter: The brooks were frozen, the airports almost deserted, And snow disfigured the public statues; The mercury sank in the mouth of the dying day. What instruments we have agree The day of his death was a dark cold day. Far from his illness The wolves ran on through the evergreen forests, The peasant river was untempted by the fashionable quays; By mourning tongues The death of the poet was kept from his poems. But for him it was his last afternoon as himself, An afternoon of nurses and rumours; The provinces of his body revolted, The squares of his mind were empty, Silence invaded the suburbs, The current of his feeling failed; he became his admirers. Now he is scattered among a hundred cities And wholly given over to unfamiliar affections, To find his happiness in another kind of wood And be punished under a foreign code of conscience. The words of a dead man Are modified in the guts of the living. But in the importance and noise of to-morrow When the brokers are roaring like beasts on the floor of the Bourse, And the poor have the sufferings to which they are fairly accustomed, And each in the cell of himself is almost convinced of his freedom, A few thousand will think of this day As one thinks of a day when one did something slightly unusual. What instruments we have agree The day of his death was a dark cold day.

II

You were silly like us; your gift survived it all: The parish of rich women, physical decay, Yourself. Mad Ireland hurt you into poetry. Now Ireland has her madness and her weather still, For poetry makes nothing happen: it survives In the valley of its making where executives Would never want to tamper, flows on south From ranches of isolation and the busy griefs, Raw towns that we believe and die in; it survives, A way of happening, a mouth.

III

Earth, receive an honoured guest: William Yeats is laid to rest. Let the Irish vessel lie Emptied of its poetry. In the nightmare of the dark All the dogs of Europe bark, And the living nations wait, Each sequestered in its hate; Intellectual disgrace Stares from every human face, And the seas of pity lie Locked and frozen in each eye. Follow, poet, follow right To the bottom of the night, With your unconstraining voice Still persuade us to rejoice; With the farming of a verse Make a vineyard of the curse, Sing of human unsuccess In a rapture of distress; In the deserts of the heart Let the healing fountain start, In the prison of his days Teach the free man how to praise.

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quadrinhos desenhados por Pagu