Homo-images

(fragments)

Eric Ponty

Stael, through a Window

I saw you sad when I there arrived

I noticed that whitewashes it a tear

finished and it evaporates as the own time

when voices that got lost in gotten up early it

of shots that were lost hair thieves

so that the pain of the reality doesn't escape them.

I found you wrapped up in the autumn, it was spring

it shook its hair as waves comings of a sea

of fish that not more they speak to each other, they murmur

of ships that play for the other continents

I saw you fragile sculpted for the it,

in a brutalized reality of men

that communicate with the absorbed abysses.

The time is not still really prepared

It is the reality it is a simple postcard...

Ferreira Gullar

The purification of its soul didn't make herself inside of palaces

nor he had an aristocratic ancestry in the making

he had an agitated and school life of the me

not a me unaware of narcissism in its formation

without diletantism.

The formation went being done inside of the daily days

in the sophistication of a me critical lover

not of an art closed in herself vision

a mirrorart

reflecting the chaos for those that lost it

in its rigid days of an agostiniano conflict

of intellect monologue with or its god or me or ego

but even so torturante monologue.

Impossible it is to translate the commotion of the delirium of the word

poetic poem among apoeticas apologies

of trying to Translate that doesn't translate her

for having come with us from the stranger

perhaps because it doesn't attack more to the banal murmur

or because he was that Poet in search of poets

in the field of soccer of our possible visions,

and he learned the handmade learning soon of translating.

Sat down in its rocking chair where you balance

the memoirses, the lost dreams, the enemies,

of one time that not more if excellence, traps;

even so inherent matter of Translating

the one that very few or already almost nobody in art.

To the Poet's glance the art doesn't agglutinate poverty,

mimeses, the poor structure of the old nature

it didn't dissect for parts all these inequalities

besides Poet, it metamorphosed in revolutionary

exile I in strange earth for a fight delay,

it spreads fight of souls and of the hearts that believe,

that this whole decomposiçon can be saving

and the poverty doesn't listen all ours I disenchant..

To the glance of its Poet mission it went besides the mimésis,

And of this double birth of the resolution it went this to poésis,

although the strange deaf world didn't see it,

for the fear of they be committed by the body

of this conscience of individuals of the daily

that are founded illiterate of mendacious bourgeois,

of this mediocre of value exposed matter of a Biennial one.

It doesn't just bale the rocking chair of the time,

thinking and aprimorando a future for this bourgeois one,

for the ones that they still insist of finding useless the poetry,

fragile distant matter of this imposed barbarism,

he dreams the creator's dream and of the first instant

of the margin of the chaos that flowed and he made himself harmony.

I study poetic of the poet close to the window

For Ivan Junqueira

Hands committees to the chin

as a thinker.

Will it be of Rodin it will Be?

A man that solitary

sings an archaic queen

that melted in bone

it destroys the silence of the afternoon.

The man dialogues the myth

it re-does of himself image

does ignorant the infinite.

Word is dazzled

nude statue that is silenced

lost Greek in a square garden.

The man discovers the passion

it burns as the soul of an Andalusian

it observes the border of the time

flowed.

The solitary tibia and more lives

lost in the marble white

as a stone melted in the ivy

strange the silence of the days.

The man dialogues with the daily

it follows solitary and empty streets of the afternoon

they mixed to the dreams and the acts

in a I silence that it does it slays of facts.

A soul that is discovered more lives

of a dantesca it forms without paradiso

more human more abissal more soul.

Hands committees to the chin

as a traitor of bitter speeches.

Will a thinker be?

Will it be of Rodin? Will it be?

Ivo Barraso

Horseman of the language

that penetrates inside of the night

in the mercury light that lights

imitating an old balustrade

lit candles that are dissected

after adorning its steps

that overstepped in the daily.

Horseman of the language

exile of Ervália that translates

this shipwrecks

a blond boy's ship of tragic

conscience with yours me illuminated

represented narcissus of this time

in transfigured him moment.

Horseman of the language

that it seduces us for the language,

he agglutinates words for charm

as who looks at the stars

that in the immensity of a hurricane sun

esvaído in a paradise of a Dante

of strange circles and echoes of the night.

The perspective of our glance

Aline

The world is an infinite and sad sphere

we are too old to be innocent

too young to answer the questions

that are arrested and agglutinated

in the present instant of our fall.

The high city

she inhabits our dreams of infinite desires

that slow esvaem-if in the winter fog

and she told me that in her

an ideal Father that will stamp our anxieties lives.

The city lowers

very small for the perspective of our glance

in her bombs of hydrogen and NAPALM are played

in her she still inhabits the rude and barbaric men

in her still in spite of everything it is inhabited

as I wanted that the sun had less light

not this sun plated without hopes

of an impressionist shade to the dawn

even so brilliant as in a picture of Van Gogh

plating our more private screams

of having disenchanted half days in the screen

white

navigator of as a drunk ship direction

the margins of water of the daily.

Aline

not the world didn't still appear properly

it was made her as rude wing of a dead Ícaro

of poor featherses that had been destroyed in the sun

missing in the vã it battles

shaded daily.

It is still necessary

to follow the margin-hope and to raise the flag

to discover this rude road.

The high city Chose for Yitzhak Rabin

I hear the tumult of my time and its voice,

brings intolerance and this is its symbol

Strange time that the men still die.

Intolerance this is its name,

That it is nailed in the people's doors,

It is like this already very natural to murder a man.

Freedom this strange and old ideal

Extract of soul hardness, hate extract

That I observe hidden in its days.

Of my window I observe the fight that burns

In the night night that hinders a white peace.

It is strange because I didn't live there in the fields

I listen the rumors that arrive of the ovens,

Mui rude sheep, that defraud names

Of the daily that does late after late.

The century didn't still turn its destiny

This bácula curves that traces the solitude

Where pretentious young, too much assumed

They fake to ignore.

Any it is fought it turns vã when it is treated

it can have a consent and a respect

the freedom will only like this be built.

Intolerance your name is registered

and this dialogue, just a game among madams.

Silence, gentlemen, the rudest silence

it was killed by the backs a man

so that the intolerance can prosper,

in our houses and inside of our minds

there to be still more screams and still more...

There will only be freedom if this be melted

In the white plumages of the truth

when to leave of we recite the fight

when this to belong us absolute...

Oranice Franco's Sea

" the sea groans and cries in having suffered ais

just because doesn't take a bath Minas Gerais "

- Seas of Minas - mote - Oranice Franco

The seas of Minas play a scream

it will be of that and always afflicted scream;

whose sleepless bells abdicate as

do I testify of this to play of the had?

If in Minas there are salted seas;

which the port that leaves for Portugal

with which spices Minas does fish?

Ah sea of so dead of red

whose waters Moises opens with the staff!

Ah sea of so dead, is red

that announces that Oranice rises

to be finally the eternal direction

of this bandarra whose sea screams: general!

If Minas is strange and old in the pain

cries for the children's deaths in the sea

with firm and weighed touch of brass

announces that the caravel leaves for one

another place!

Vibration in red

P / Arcangelo Ianelli

Your west is that twilight,

reached of red,

abated in a channel

of red tonalities.

He has prominence details

as a note

of a malice.

They had immediate effigies

that also left of the light

and they were more convincing

that the flight of a butterfly

against a deep gris.

Your abstract shade

against the red dimension

it is just joy and extension

and escape.

Variation on it Counts of Fée of Robert Desnos

P / peace in the world

I don't know when it was

A man that loved another man

I don't know when it was

A man that was fraternal with another man

I don't know when it was

That loved and they were understood while men

It was once only

Only an only time who knows

That a man got to be a man before another

She could not keep the girlfriend's eyes

Moema and its question

“Guardar uma coisa é olhá-la, fitá-la, mirá-la por
admirá-la, isto é, iluminá-la ou ser por ela iluminado.”