Troubled Water

Upon a golden charger Salome bears      the head of John the Baptist           to the young Greek sophist who recoils from her love, indifferent The young man quips, “Salome, your own      head is what I wanted them to bring me.”           This is what he says, jokingly. And her slave came running on the morrow holding aloft the head of the Beloved,      its tresses blond, upon a golden plate.      But all his eagerness of yesterday the sophist had forgotten as he studied. He sees the dripping blood and is disgusted.      He orders this bloodied thing to      be taken from him, and he continues his reading of the dialogues of Plato. Salome (1896) - Constantine Cavafy  Trans. Daniel Mendelsohn After Jesus had finished instructing his twelve disciples, he went on from there to teach and preach in the towns of Galilee. When John, who was in ...

Na pele sinto o percurso das ondas, mais amplo e tenso do que o périplo do sol. E, no entanto, este vai-se gerando a si mesmo, a cada momento, até à placidez do meio-dia. São feitos de horas, contínuas, eternas, aqui, na ria, os dias. Hoje,  meu dia, o coração e o dia rejubilam. Agosto de 2000 Meio-Dia /  Meu Dia Nenhum sinal nos calcina as órbitas Voluntários somos de frente com a imagem na grafia dos espelhos Um teorema de pálpebras nos situa imunes à cicatriz dos limites  que bebemos Um sismo incontém nossos ombros fechados Limítrofes os nossos pés anfíbios invocam o rio Tema 4 in Morfismos (1961) Esperas os sinais da minha existência. Eu transcrevo-te mas não vivo no poema. Morro na mancha do papel. Uma carta cai  no matagal como um pássaro. O não ser  caçadora dá-me um sentido conciso da  realidade. Nem os belíssimos perdigueiros me sentirão passar aqui. Eles não me vêem até ao âmago. Tudo  o que é exterior e visível como  o corpo atrai-os. T...

I’ve still not admitted defeat, nor have I withdrawn: that high inspiration, that talent I was endowed with, has not been discarded. Its milk-camel’s capacity to fill the dairy pail is undiminished – apart from my deliberate delay, there is no difference in me. So I have a few points to make to deal with the spreaders of doubt.   When men dedicate to the struggle and determine to fulfil their duty; when they ready themselves for the charge, amass the finest thoroughbreds; when the reins are on the racers, I never step aside.   Gaarriye, in this arena where the chess game unfolds – well worth the watching, promising play – the innocent delight in alliterative war, our Deelley with its two sides, where tactic is met by counter-tactic – and here’s where I put my piece.   These first points are just the outline to the real issue, the whole shape of which this poem will address.   When our debate gets heated loopholes come to light: that damage done by exploiting the bitt...

[...]Há sempre problemas mais graves do que aquele de que estamos a falar. Foi assim durante anos com temas ridículos como a violência doméstica, a pedofilia na Igreja, a misoginia no mercado de trabalho, a saúde mental, o ambiente. Coisas diferentes que têm em comum terem sido promovidas a problemas graves. Isso apesar de nem todos os maridos baterem nas mulheres, nem todos os padres fazerem sexo com menores, nem todos os patrões discriminarem as mulheres, nem todos termos doenças mentais e nem todos misturarmos o lixo no mesmo balde. Os que falaram antes de tempo sobre esses cinco problemas, quando eram vistos como residuais, exagerados e uma distracção do que realmente importava, bateram com o nariz na porta e ouviram o habitual “não há pachorra”. Com o racismo é igual. Somos óptimas pessoas e a nossa colonização não foi tão brutal quanto isso. Há casos de racismo? Sim, mas são ovelhas negras e há racismo em todo o lado, até em África, entre os negros. A conversa vai sempre para aí....

“Fly with me then to all's and the world's end  And plumb for safety down the gaps of stars;  Let the last gulf or topless cliff befriend,  What tyrant there our variance debars?"  Alas, how hope for freedom, no bars bind;  Space is like earth, rounded, a padded cell;  Plumb the stars depth, your lead bumps you behind;  Blind Satan's voice rattled the whole of Hell  On cushioned air what is such metal worth  To pierce to the gulf that lies so snugly curled?  Each tangent plain touches one top of earth,  Each point in one direction ends the world.  Apple of knowledge and forgetful mere  From Tantalus too differential bend.‘  The shadow clings. The world's end is here.  This place's curvature precludes its end.  The world’s end Law makes long spokes of the short stakes of men.  Your well fenced out real estate of mind  No high flat of the nomad citizen  Looks over, or train leaves behind.  ...

[...] Passamos a vida a arranjar defeitos aos portugueses – e sabe Deus o que é difícil encontrar-lhes qualidades que colem –, mas eis um defeito que nós, portugueses, não temos: a preguiça. Ou, pelo menos, não temos tanto como outros povos que nos ocorrem facilmente. Não somos preguiçosos . Chega a ser embaraçoso ouvir a condescendência dos povos indolentes a dizer que somos muito trabalhadores. Mas é verdade. Não é que gostemos de trabalhar. Mas não temos é paciência para nos dedicarmos a resistir ao trabalho. A preguiça dá trabalho. E ocupa o tempo tanto ou mais do que trabalhar. É preciso desenvolver uma atitude. E mantê-la. Há todo um trabalho filosófico de indiferença ao esforço, de renúncia aos resultados da alienação operária. A preguiça é um pecado mortal porque vira as costas aos outros pecados mortais. Não se sente tentada pelos prazeres da vida. A indiferença , seja na forma de cansaço ou de tristeza ou de falta de curiosidade, é a pior maneira de desrespeitar a vida, a dád...

A schema is a configuration within the brain, either inborn or learned, against which the input of the nerve cells is compared. ...the conscious mind ...can fill in details that are missing from the actual sensory input and create a pattern in the mind which is not necessarily present in reality. In this way, the gestalt of objects—the impression...—is aided by the taxonomic powers of the schemata . Primitive men are ecological analogs of lions, wolves, and hyenas... they have adopted pack hunting in the pursuit of big game. ...habitually slaughtering surplus prey, storing food, feeding solid food to their young, dividing labor, practicing cannibalism, and interacting aggressively with competing species. ...this way of life persisted for millions of years or longer and was abandoned in most societies only during the last few thousand years. Pure knowledge is the ultimate emancipator. It equalizes people and sovereign states, erodes the archaic barriers of superstition and promises to l...

Some Hindus have an elephant to show. No one here has ever seen an elephant. They bring it at night to a dark room. One by one, we go in the dark and come out saying how we experience the animal. One of us happens to touch the trunk. "A water-pipe kind of creature." Another, the ear. "A very strong, always moving back and forth, fan-animal." Another, the leg. "I find it still, like a column on a temple." Another touches the curved back. "A leathery throne." Another, the cleverest, feels the tusk. "A rounded sword made of porcelain." He's proud of his description. Each of us touches one place and understands the whole in that way. The palm and the fingers feeling in the dark are how the senses explore the reality of the elephant. If each of us held a candle there, and if we went in together, we could see it. An Elephant in the Dark – translated by Coleman Barks Hokusai,  The Blind Men and the Elephant  (block print, Japan,  ca.  1817...

“‘Forgive me. I—I have mourned so long in silence—in silence. . . You were with him—to the last? I think of his loneliness. Nobody near to understand him as I would have understood. Perhaps no one to hear. . .’ “‘To the very end,’ I said, shakily. ‘I heard his very last words. . .’ I stopped in a fright. “‘Repeat them,’ she murmured in a heart–broken tone. ‘I want—I want—something—something—to—to live with.’ “I was on the point of crying at her, ‘Don’t you hear them?’ The dusk was repeating them in a persistent whisper all around us, in a whisper that seemed to swell menacingly like the first whisper of a rising wind. ‘The horror! The horror!’ “‘His last word—to live with,’ she insisted. ‘Don’t you understand I loved him—I loved him—I loved him!’ “I pulled myself together and spoke slowly. “‘The last word he pronounced was—your name.’ “I heard a light sigh and then my heart stood still, stopped dead short by an exulting and terrible cry, by the cry of inconceivable triumph and of unspe...