Um poema sobre a borboleta / A poem about the butterfly

"The Ballerina": um poema de Edwina Reizer, ilustrado por Melinda Byers

"Ballet Day Dreams" por Melinda Byers

The Ballerina

The frightened ballerina, 
standing on her toes
stood behind the curtain
in a dainty pose.
Having practiced faithfully
hour after hour,
inside her heart was pounding.
Outside her muscled power
overcame her fear.

The overture now playing,
each note was in her ear.
And as the curtain opened
it took away her fear.
The stage, the lights
became her love.
Each pirouette and leap
took her way above
into a different sphere.

The audience, mesmerized,
intent on every motion,
appreciation on their faces
showed deep emotion.
And as the music ended
she took her final bow.
No longer was
she frightened,
in fact emboldened now.
She knew why she was here.

To dance, to dance
at every given chance.
To hear the applause
and hear them call her name.
And so the ballerina
standing on her toes
so graceful and dainty
is awed as she does hear.
'Bravo, bravo,
bravo, my dear.'

Edwina Reizer (12/22/1937 )

A poem by Alexander Anderson: "A Castle Old And Grey"

Clique para aumentar.

Click to enlarge.

Numa manhã sonolenta de Inverno / In "A sleepy winter morning"

A lareira / The Fireplace: a poem by Edwina Reizer

Poema sobre uma leitora atenta / The attentive reader

Ariana Richards

A Leitora

Ali está ela, atenta, a leitora.
Mas, repara: lê

como se levitasse.
O escrito pouco importa.

É como se não lesse. Imagine:
uma língua tão estrangeira

que ela não reconhecesse,
não soubesse qual e,

serena, não dá por isso.
Ou mais que:

não lê. Vê
as páginas,

como se da janela
a paisagem

e pousasse os olhos
na orla das páginas

sem saber
onde vão as palavras.

Frui, tão-só,
a pele, o almíscar,

a árvore
que o livro foi um dia.


Eucanaã Ferraz

O teu riso num poema / Your laughter in a poem

O teu riso

Tira-me o pão, se quiseres,
tira-me o ar, mas não
me tires o teu riso.

Não me tires a rosa,
a lança que desfolhas,
a água que de súbito
brota da tua alegria,
a repentina onda
de prata que em ti nasce.

A minha luta é dura e regresso
com os olhos cansados
às vezes por ver
que a terra não muda,
mas ao entrar teu riso
sobe ao céu a procurar-me
e abre-me todas
as portas da vida.

Meu amor, nos momentos
mais escuros solta
o teu riso e se de súbito
vires que o meu sangue mancha
as pedras da rua,
ri, porque o teu riso
será para as minhas mãos
como uma espada fresca.

À beira do mar, no outono,
teu riso deve erguer
sua cascata de espuma,
e na primavera, amor,
quero teu riso como
a flor que esperava,
a flor azul, a rosa
da minha pátria sonora.

Ri-te da noite,
do dia, da lua,
ri-te das ruas
tortas da ilha,
ri-te deste grosseiro
rapaz que te ama,
mas quando abro
os olhos e os fecho,
quando meus passos vão,
quando voltam meus passos,
nega-me o pão, o ar,
a luz, a primavera,
mas nunca o teu riso,
porque então morreria.

Pablo Neruda

Fonte

O homem que pensa que consegue.../ "...the man WHO THINKS HE CAN"

Adrien-Jean le Mayeur

"Thinking"  

If you think you are beaten, you are
If you think you dare not, you don't,
If you like to win, but you think you can't
It is almost certain you won't.

If you think you'll lose, you're lost
For out of the world we find,
Success begins with a fellow's will
It's all in the state of mind.

If you think you are outclassed, you are
You've got to think high to rise,
You've got to be sure of yourself before
You can ever win a prize.

Life's battles don't always go
To the stronger or faster man,
But soon or late the man who wins
Is the man WHO THINKS HE CAN!

Walter D. Wintle

O presente de Natal / "The Christmas Gift "

The Christmas Gift 



It isn't the flowing ribbons,
draped and curled with extra care,
or the fine and fancy bows
tied with ornamental flair.

It isn't the label on the box,
the sum of money spent,
or anything that shows the length
to which you obviously went.

The beauty of a Christmas gift
cannot be seen at all.
For the loveliness of giving
is a feeling, grand and tall.

It's the genuine offer of love,
the yearning to make a connection,
a show of honest gratitude,
a display of sincere affection.


Autor desconhecido / Unknown author


Via The Storybook Of Dreams & Beauty

Montra de Natal / Window Shopping

Montra de Natal em Baltimore, 1938. 

A. Aubrey Bodine.

Window Shopping

Isn't it great to go window shopping?

I enjoy, looking at everything I see.
No matter what it is, I'm looking at
automatically, I picture it on me.
Every window, has such beautiful
displays. I can't help but stand there
and stare. I just spied this fabulous
red sweater, it was made for me, I'd
swear! Red is one of my favorite
colors, it gives me a special kind of
glow. Whenever I wear it, heads will
turn, so I know. As a matter of fact,
I can wear any color, the exception
being lime green. It's not a flattering
color, so on me, it will never be seen.
There are so many lovely things, to
look at, I could spend hours and never
worry about the time. But the best part
of all, I can shop as long as I like and
never, spend a dime!

Audrey Heller

A magia de abrir um livro / "I Opened a Book"

"The Jungle Book", Christian Schloe

"I Opened a Book"
By Julia Donaldson

I opened a book and in I strode.
Now nobody can find me.
I’ve left my chair, my house, my road,
My town and my world behind me.

I’m wearing the cloak, I’ve slipped on the ring,
I’ve swallowed the magic potion.
I’ve fought with a dragon, dined with a king
And dived in a bottomless ocean.

I opened a book and made some friends.
I shared their tears and laughter
And followed their road with its bumps and bends
To the happily ever after.

I finished my book and out I came.
The cloak can no longer hide me.
My chair and my house are just the same,
But I have a book inside me.

O piropo poético

Porque dou comida aos pássaros: um poema / “Why I feed the birds” by Richard Vargas

“Why I feed the birds” by Richard Vargas

Once
i saw my grandmother hold out
her hand cupping a small offering...
of seed to one of the wild sparrows
that frequented the bird bath she
filled with fresh water every day

she stood still
maybe stopped breathing
while the sparrow looked
at her, then the seed
then back as if he was
judging her character
he jumped into her hand
began to eat
she smiled
a woman holding
a small god.

Como tornar o mundo num lugar melhor / How to make the world a better place

Harold's Planet

"Bendito o que semeia livros à mão cheia"

Alice Ratterree

Oh! Bendito o que semeia
Livros à mão cheia
E manda o povo pensar!
O livro, caindo n'alma
É germe – que faz a palma,
É chuva – que faz o mar!

Castro Alves

Um poema sobre a morte: é triste mas muito bonito / W.H. Auden's poem "Funeral Blues"

Cena do filme Quatro Casamentos e Um Funeral.

Funeral Blues

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

W. H. Auden

 

William Etty, 1828

 

Ela / "She walks in beauty, like the night..."

 

Irene Sheri

She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes...

Lord Byron

"Love and a cough...": a poem by Anne Sexton

"As it has been said:
Love and a cough
cannot be concealed.
Even a small cough.
Even a small love".

Anne Sexton

De onde vem um poema? / Where does a poem come from?

 

 Joseph Severn (1793-1872)

 

"A poem can come out of something seen, something overheard, listening to music, an article in a newspaper, a book, a combination of all these…There’s a kind of emotional release that I then find in the act of writing the poem. It’s not, ‘I’m now going to sit down and write a poem about this.’"

Adrienne Rich

O livro é um portão / A book is a gate

O livro é o portão de acesso

à liberdade e ao saber.

E nem sequer cobra ingresso:

basta abri-lo, entrar… e ler!

Antônio Augusto de Assis