casa da poesia

ANA.

2011-11-15T15:20:00.000-08:00

ANA
Pək cocuğdum,
yerə gömdülər səni,
Həyata qanadsız atdılar məni.
Bax, necə pozulub ömür gülşəni,
Həyat sənsiz mənə zindandır, ana!
Qoynunda bəslənir gözəl diləklər,
Layiqdir səcdəyə sənə mələklər,
Nerdəsən, gözlərim həp səni bəklər,
Bax evladın nasıl giryandır, ana!
Sən bir günəş idin, doğdum da, batdın,
Yazıq evladını qəmlərə atdın.
Bir cavab ver, hanki murada çatdın
Torpaqlarda neçə zamandır, ana!
Bir ah çəksəm sənsiz, qopmazmı tufan?
Əzizim anacan, gözüm anacan!
Yumuq gözlərini aç da bir oyan,
Şimdi zaman başqa zamandır, ana!
Yıxılıb payinə öpmək istərəm,
Analıq mehrini görmək istərəm,
Səni görmək üçün ölmək istərəm,
Təsəlim ah ilə fəğandır, ana!
1927

Samad Vurgun (Azerbaijani: Səməd Vurğun, born Samad Vakilov, March 21, 1906, Yukhari Salahli – May 27, 1956, Baku) was a prominent Azerbaijani and Soviet poet.

O RIO DA MINHA ALDEIA!...ao "Rio Branco", á "Vila", á minha infância...aos meus amigos d'infância...ao jan manel malata!!!

2011-06-21T01:03:00.000-07:00

O Tejo é mais belo que o rio que corre pela minha aldeia,
Mas o Tejo não é mais belo que o rio que corre pela minha aldeia
Porque o Tejo não é o rio que corre pela minha aldeia.

O Tejo tem grandes navios
E navega nele ainda,
Para aqueles que vêem em tudo o que lá não está,
A memória das naus.
O Tejo desce de Espanha
E o Tejo entra no mar em Portugal.
Toda a gente sabe isso.
Mas poucos sabem qual é o rio da minha aldeia
E para onde ele vai
E donde ele vem.
E por isso porque pertence a menos gente,
É mais livre e maior o rio da minha aldeia.

Pelo Tejo vai-se para o Mundo.
Para além do Tejo há a América
E a fortuna daqueles que a encontram.
Ninguém nunca pensou no que há para além
Do rio da minha aldeia.

O rio da minha aldeia não faz pensar em nada.
Quem está ao pé dele está só ao pé dele.

Alberto Caeiro

LA VIDA ES BELLA TÚ VERÁS!!!...A NUESTROS HIJOS!

2011-03-21T04:32:00.000-07:00

PALABRAS PARA JULIA

Tú no puedes volver atrás
porque la vida ya te empuja
como un aullido interminable.

Hija mía es mejor vivir
con la alegría de los hombres
que llorar ante el muro ciego.

Te sentirás acorralada
te sentirás perdida o sola
tal vez querrás no haber nacido.

Yo sé muy bien que te dirán
que la vida no tiene objeto
que es un asunto desgraciado.

Entonces siempre acuérdate
de lo que un día yo escribí
pensando en ti como ahora pienso.

La vida es bella, ya verás
como a pesar de los pesares
tendrás amigos, tendrás amor.

Un hombre solo, una mujer
así tomados, de uno en uno
son como polvo, no son nada.

Pero yo cuando te hablo a ti
cuando te escribo estas palabras
pienso también en otra gente.

Tu destino está en los demás
tu futuro es tu propia vida
tu dignidad es la de todos.

Otros esperan que resistas
que les ayude tu alegría
tu canción entre sus canciones.

Entonces siempre acuérdate
de lo que un día yo escribí
pensando en ti
como ahora pienso.

Nunca te entregues ni te apartes
junto al camino, nunca digas
no puedo más y aquí me quedo.

La vida es bella, tú verás
como a pesar de los pesares
tendrás amor, tendrás amigos.

Por lo demás no hay elección
y este mundo tal como es
será todo tu patrimonio.

Perdóname no sé decirte
nada más pero tú comprende
que yo aún estoy en el camino.

Y siempre siempre acuérdate
de lo que un día yo escribí
pensando en ti como ahora pienso.

S U S A N A !...TO YOU!...mil beijos...e mais cem e...novamente mil e mais cem...e depois mais mil e mais cem..

2011-03-03T01:18:00.000-08:00

Suzanne
by Leonard Cohen
Suzanne takes you down to
her place near the river
You can hear the boats go by
You can spend the night beside her
And you know that she's half crazy
But that's why you want to be there
And she feeds you tea and oranges
That come all the way from China
And just when you mean to tell her
That you have no love to give her
Then she gets you on her wavelength
And she lets the river answer
That you've always been her lover
And you want to travel with her
And you want to travel blind
And you know that she will trust you
For you've touched her perfect body
with your mind.

And Jesus was a sailor
When he walked upon the water
And he spent a long time watching
From his lonely wooden tower
And when he knew for certain
Only drowning men could see him
He said "All men will be sailors then
Until the sea shall free them"
But he himself was broken
Long before the sky would open
Forsaken, almost human
He sank beneath your wisdom like a stone
And you want to travel with him
And you want to travel blind
And you think maybe you'll trust him
For he's touched your perfect body
with his mind.

Now Suzanne takes your hand
And she leads you to the river
She is wearing rags and feathers
From Salvation Army counters
And the sun pours down like honey
On our lady of the harbour
And she shows you where to look
Among the garbage and the flowers
There are heroes in the seaweed
There are children in the morning
They are leaning out for love
And they will lean that way forever
While Suzanne holds the mirror
And you want to travel with her
And you want to travel blind
And you know that you can trust her
For she's touched your perfect body
with her mind.

LADIES and GENTLEMEN...here to my Primaço ALBERTO!!!...JIM MORRISON!...THE DOORS!!! THE POETRY IS A NUCLEAR ARM! SAVE THE WORLD!

2011-02-05T02:17:00.000-08:00

THE DOORS
"The End"
This is the end
Beautiful friend
This is the end
My only friend, the end

Of our elaborate plans, the end
Of everything that stands, the end
No safety or surprise, the end
I'll never look into your eyes...again

Can you picture what will be
So limitless and free
Desperately in need...of some...stranger's hand
In a...desperate land

Lost in a Roman...wilderness of pain
And all the children are insane
All the children are insane
Waiting for the summer rain, yeah

There's danger on the edge of town
Ride the King's highway, baby
Weird scenes inside the gold mine
Ride the highway west, baby

Ride the snake, ride the snake
To the lake, the ancient lake, baby
The snake is long, seven miles
Ride the snake...he's old, and his skin is cold

The west is the best
The west is the best
Get here, and we'll do the rest

The blue bus is callin' us
The blue bus is callin' us
Driver, where you taken' us

The killer awoke before dawn, he put his boots on
He took a face from the ancient gallery
And he walked on down the hall
He went into the room where his sister lived, and...then he
Paid a visit to his brother, and then he
He walked on down the hall, and
And he came to a door...and he looked inside
Father, yes son, I want to kill you
Mother...I want to...fuck you

C'mon baby, take a chance with us
C'mon baby, take a chance with us
C'mon baby, take a chance with us
And meet me at the back of the blue bus
Doin' a blue rock
On a blue bus
Doin' a blue rock
C'mon, yeah

Kill, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill

This is the end
Beautiful friend
This is the end
My only friend, the end

It hurts to set you free
But you'll never follow me
The end of laughter and soft lies
The end of nights we tried to die

This is the end

LOVE STORY!...TO YOU...MY GODFATHER(António R. Antunes)!!!...AKHENATEN - NEFERTITI..THANKS.

2011-01-08T01:25:00.000-08:00

You arise beauteous in the horizon of the heavens
Oh living Aten who creates life.
When you shine forth in the Eastern horizon you fill every land with your beauty.
You are so beautiful: you are great; gleaming and high over every land.
Your rays embrace the lands and all you have created;
You are Re and reach out to all your creations, and hold them for your beloved Son.
You are afar, but your rays touch the earth;
Men see you, but know not your ways.

When you set in the Western horizon of the sky
The earth is in darkness like the dead.
People sleep in their rooms with covered heads;
They do not see each other.
If all their possessions were stolen
They would know it not.
Every lion leaves its lair;
All snakes bite;
Darkness covers all.
The world is silent
For the creator rests in his horizon.

When you rise from the horizon the earth grows bright;
You shine as the Aten in the sky and drive away the darkness;
When your rays gleam forth, the whole of Egypt is festive.
People wake and stand on their feet
For you have lifted them up.
They wash their limbs and take up their clothes and dress;
They raise their arms to you in adoration.

Then the whole of the land does its work;
All cattle enjoy their pastures,
Trees and plants grow green,
Birds fly up from their nests
And raise their wings in praise of your spirit.
Goats frisk on their feet,
And all fluttering and flying things come alive
Because you shine on them.
Boats sail up and downstream,
All ways are opened because you have appeared.
The fish in the river leap up to you
Your rays are in the deep of the sea.

You are the creator of the issue in woman,
The seed in men;
You give life to the son in his mother's womb
Soothing him so he does not cry
Oh nurse within the womb.

You give the breath of life to all your creations
From the day they are born.
You open their mouths and give them sustenance.
To the chick that cries "tweet" while still in the egg
You give breath in the shell to let him live,
And make the time for him to break the shell
And come out of the egg at the moment for him to chirp
And patter on his two feet.

How manifold are your works: they are secret from our sight
Oh unique god, no other is like you.
You made the earth after your own heart
When you were alone. All men, herds
And flocks, all on the earth that goes on its feet;
and all that is in the sky and flies with its wings.
The land of Egypt, the foreign lands of Syria and Nubia too -
You put every man in his place and fulfil his needs;
Each one with his sustenance and the days of his life counted,
Their language is different,
And they look different;
Their complexions are different,
For you have distinguished the nations.
You make the seasons to bring into being all your creatures;
Winter to cool them,
And the heat of summer to come from you.
You have made the sky afar off
So when you rise you can see all you have made.
You alone rise in the form of the living Aten
Shining afar, yet close at hand.
You make millions of forms out of you alone,
Towns and villages, fields, roads and river.
All eyes see you before them
For you are the Aten of the day, over all the earth.

You are in my heart and none other knows thee
But your son "Akhenaten";
You have given him understanding of your designs and your power.
The people of the world are in your hand
Just as you have created them.
All men since you have made the earth you have raised for your son
Who came forth from your body,
The King of Egypt who lives in truth,
Lord of Diadems, Akhenaten, whose life is long:
And for his beloved wife
Mistress of Two Lands, NefernefruatenNefertiti
May she live and flourish in eternity.

Akhenaten (pronounced /ˌɑːkəˈnɑːtən/;[1] often also spelled Echnaton, Akhnaton, or rarely Ikhnaton; meaning Effective spirit of Aten) was known before the fifth year of his reign as Amenhotep IV (sometimes given its Greek form, Amenophis IV, and meaning Amun is Satisfied), a Pharaoh of the Eighteenth dynasty of Egypt, ruled for 17 years and died in 1336 BC or 1334 BC. He is especially noted for abandoning traditional Egyptian polytheism and introducing worship centered on the Aten, which is sometimes described as monotheistic or henotheistic. An early inscription likens him to the sun as compared to stars, and later official language avoids calling the Aten a god, giving the solar deity a status above mere gods.

...eres como un poema de Miguel Hernandez!...

2010-12-11T02:11:00.000-08:00

LAS MANOS

Dos especies de manos se enfrentan en la vida,
brotan del corazón, irrumpen por los brazos,
saltan, y desembocan sobre la luz herida
a golpes, a zarpazos.

La mano es la herramienta del alma, su mensaje,
y el cuerpo tiene en ella su rama combatiente.
Alzad, moved las manos en un gran oleaje,
hombres de mi simiente.

Ante la aurora veo surgir las manos puras
de los trabajadores terrestres y marinos,
como una primavera de alegres dentaduras,
de dedos matutinos.

Endurecidamente pobladas de sudores,
retumbantes las venas desde las uñas rotas,
constelan los espacios de andamios y clamores,
relámpagos y gotas.

Conducen herrerías, azadas y telares,
muerden metales, montes, raptan hachas, encinas,
y construyen, si quieren, hasta en los mismos mares
fábricas, pueblos, minas.

Estas sonoras manos oscuras y lucientes
las reviste una piel de invencible corteza,
y son inagotables y generosas fuentes
de vida y de riqueza.

Como si con los astros el polvo peleara,
como si los planetas lucharan con gusanos,
la especie de las manos trabajadora y clara
lucha con otras manos.

Feroces y reunidas en un bando sangriento
avanzan al hundirse los cielos vespertinos
unas manos de hueso lívido y avariento,
paisaje de asesinos.

No han sonado: no cantan. Sus dedos vagan roncos,
mudamente aletean, se ciernen, se propagan.
Ni tejieron la pana, ni mecieron los troncos,
y blandas de ocio vagan.

Empuñan crucifijos y acaparan tesoros
que a nadie corresponden sino a quien los labora,
y sus mudos crepúsculos absorben los sonoros
caudales de la aurora.

Orgullo de puñales, arma de bombardeos
con un cáliz, un crimen y un muerto en cada uña:
ejecutoras pálidas de los negros deseos
que la avaricia empuña.

¿Quién lavará estas manos fangosas que se extienden
al agua y la deshonran, enrojecen y estragan?
Nadie lavará manos que en el puñal se encienden
y en el amor se apagan.

Las laboriosas manos de los trabajadores
caerán sobre vosotras con dientes y cuchillas.
Y las verán cortadas tantos explotadores
en sus mismas rodillas.

15 de febrero de 1937

Miguel Hernández, Poeta español nacido en Orihuela, Alicante, en 1910.
Hijo de campesinos, desempeñó entre otros oficios, el de pastor de cabras. Guiado por su amigo Ramón Sijé,
se inició en la poesía desde los veinte años; publicó su primer libro «Perito en lunas» en 1933 y posteriormente,
los sonetos agrupados en «El rayo que no cesa», marcaron la experiencia amorosa del poeta.
Durante la guerra civil militó muy activamente en el bando republicano como Comisario de Cultura, siendo encarcelado
y condenado a muerte al terminar el conflicto. Antes de morir, enfermo y detenido, publicó su última obra, «Cancionero
y romancero de ausencias».
Falleció en 1942. ©

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Viento

Love is THE MASTER...Conversemos através da alma...ao Ti Jaquim Xapa e á Ti Mari Rapada!...revelemos o que é secreto aos olhos e ouvidos...Rumi !!!

2010-11-15T08:54:00.000-08:00

LOVE IS THE MASTER

Love is the One who masters all things;
I am mastered totally by Love.
By my passion of love for Love
I have ground sweet as sugar.
O furious Wind, I am only a straw before you;
How could I know where I will be blown next?
Whoever claims to have made a pact with Destiny
Reveals himself a liar and a fool;
What is any of us but a straw in a storm?
How could anyone make a pact with a hurricane?
God is working everywhere his massive Resurrection;
How can we pretend to act on our own?
In the hand of Love I am like a cat in a sack;
Sometimes Love hoists me into the air,
Sometimes Love flings me into the air,
Love swings me round and round His head;
I have no peace, in this world or any other.
The lovers of God have fallen in a furious river;
They have surrendered themselves to Love's commands.
Like mill wheels they turn, day and night, day and night,
Constantly turning and turning, and crying out.

Başka Yarınlar

İmrûz cemâl-i tü sîmâ-yı diger dâred
İmrûz leb-î nûşet helvâ-yı diger dâred

Bugün yüzünde bir başka güzellik var senin,
bugün dudağında başka bir tad var,
boyunda başka bir yücelik
Bugün kırmızı gülün bir başka daldan

Ayın gökyüzüne bugün sığmamış
Göklere benzeyen göğsün bugün daha geniş
Hangi yanından kalktın bu sabah, söyle,
bir başka kavga var dünyada senin yüzünden,
dünyada bir başka gidiş

Biz senin gözlerinden gördük
arslanlara meydan okuyan o ceylanı,
Başka bir ovası var o ceylanın bugün
iki cihandan da dışarı

Seven insanın ayağı mı yok,
işte ona ölümsüzlük kapandı
Yukarlarda onunla uçar gider

Gözlerinin denizinde onu arama
Oinci bir başka denizde

Bakarsın bugün sever bu yürek,
yarın sevilir bakarsın

Yüreğimin özünde başka yarınlar var

Mevlana Celaleddin Rumi

Mavlana Rumi, 30.09.1207, Balkh, Persian.

"ROSE IS A ROSE IS A ROSE IS A ROSE" SAPPHÓ !!!

2010-09-26T15:10:00.000-07:00

Song of the Rose
For Zeus chose us a King of the flowers in his mirth,
He would call to the rose, and would royally crown it;
For the rose, ho, the rose! is the grace of the earth,
Is the light of the plants that are growing upon it!
For the rose, ho, the rose! is the eye of the flowers,
Is the blush of the meadows that feel themselves fair,
Is the lightning of beauty that strikes through the bowers
On pale lovers that sit in the glow unaware.
Ho, the rose breathes of love! ho, the rose lifts the cup
To the red lips of Cypris invoked for a guest!
Ho, the rose having curled its sweet leaves for the world
Takes delight in the motion its petals keep up,
As they laugh to the wind as it laughs from the west.

Poem by Sappho, Lesbo, Ereso, 640 a.c.circ.

Un immense poéte de l'ámour...SAYAT-NOVA!!!...ao Ti Zé Caratana e á Xá Ana...il fut le rossignol énamouré qui chanta sa rose avec une soif inextinguib

2010-08-09T09:32:00.000-07:00

ODE N° 47

Visions de Nazanie

(I753)

J'appelle Anna, mon rubis, (Lalanie)

Importé des mines de Badechkhan.

Peut-être mourrai-je de nostalgie,

Ma langue-rossignol couperont-ils.

Que pleurent les ennemis, restent à l'écart mes amis.

Tu portes la soie pourpre à merveille, Nazanie,

Orne ton front avec un ruban d'or,

Et tiens à la main des ciseaux plaqués or,

Coiffe, coupe, tes cheveux torsadés.

J'appelle Anna, mon Amie, (Yaranie)

Odes, ballades lyriques et vers.

Qui dit qu'en vain ils ouvrirent,

Une plaie dans ta blessure ?

Dans les Écrits l 'homme juste est béni.

Aux nuances dignes de noblesse,

Rosier touffu ; folie du rossignol,

Tes sourcils, arches de tes yeux,

Tes cils furent en or, merveilleux.

J'appelle Anna, ma si douce, (Zayanie)

Ils séparent le N du A,

C'est toi, qui dis : « Ils poignardent

Le cœur de l'amant, sans raison. »

Personne ne supporterait cette perte, même le roi.

Harutyun Sayatyan(Sayat-Nova), 14 juin 1712, Tiflis, - , 22 septembre 1795, Haghpat, Arménie.

IST LIEBEN KEUSCH?...SIBYLLA SCHWARZ!!!...ao Tio Domingos! ..."Quem di diligunt adulescens moritur"

2010-06-05T15:11:00.000-07:00

[ISt Lieben keusch? wo kompt denn Ehbruch her?]

ISt Lieben keusch? wo kompt denn Ehbruch her?
Ist Lieben guht
nichts böses drinn zu finden
wie kann sein Feur dan so gahr viel entzünden?
Ist Lieben Lust
wer bringt dan das Beschwär?
Wer Lieben liebt
fährt auff der Wollust Meer
und lässet sich ins Todes Netze binden
das nicht zerreist
er lebet nuhr den Sünden
liebt Eitelkeit
und ist der Tugend leer.
Das ewig lebt
dem stirbt er gäntzlich ab
sieht seine Noht erst
wan er siht sein Grab.
Wer dan nuhn wird in Liebes Brunst gefunden
der fliehe bald
und hasse
die er liebt;
ist Lieb ihm süß? so werd er drümb betrübt;
ist sie sein Brodt? so geb er sie den Hunden.

SIBYLLA SCHWARZ, auch: SIBYLLE SCHWARTZ (* 14.Februar 1621 in Greifswald/Pommern; 31.Juli 1638)

"Is love a fire? Can love melt iron?
Am I like fire and full of the pain of love?
Out of what is the heart of my lover?
If it were made of iron then I could melt it with my fire.

If it were made of gold I could bend it
with my glow, should it made of flesh
so I see : it is a stone made of flesh.
However, a stone cannot betray me like she does.

But if her heart were like frost , as cold as snow and ice
Then how can she make me hot with love?
I think: her heart is like laurel leaves

Which are not touched by any thunderstorm
She laughs about you, Cupid, and your arrow
She is immune to your thunderstorm"

Qué es poesia?...y tú me lo preguntas?...poesia ...eres TÚ.

2010-03-21T04:36:00.000-07:00

RIMA XXI

—¿Qué es poesía?, dices, mientras clavas
en mi pupila tu pupila azul,
¡Qué es poesía! ¿Y tú me lo preguntas?
Poesía... eres tú.

Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer,nació en Sevilla el 17 de febrero de 1836.

PHILLIS WHEATLEY ! POET POETESS ! ...SET THE CAPTIVES FREE...

2010-01-27T06:10:00.000-08:00

ON BEING BROUGHT FROM AFRICA TO AMERICA

Twas mercy brought me from my Pagan land,
Taught my benighted soul to understand
That there's a God, that there's a Saviour too:
Once I redemption neither sought not knew.
Some view our sable race with scornful eye,
"Their colour is a diabolic dye."
Remenber, Christians, Negroes, black as Cain,
May be refin'd and join th' angelic train.

Phillis Wheatley, born about 1753 in West Africa, she was kidnapped in 1761 and taken to America on a slave ship called "Phillis"...She was purchased in Boston...died from complications of childbirth at age of 31...(OS PREFERIDOS DOS DEUSES...MORREM NOVOS!)

CLETO TORRODELLAS ESPAÑOL, ferrero de profesión, yera conoixiu en a redolada como lo ferrero d'Estadilla...A MI PADRE!

2009-12-11T07:46:00.000-08:00

El poeta del terruño a los poetas elaborados

No querria, poetas de alta talla,
de ningún modo molestatos
al dirigitos esta lletras
como hablán nusatros.
El motivo déscribí esto é,
sin que seiga martingala,
para que sepaz que tiengo una pena
que me va radén el alma.
Años fa qu'escribo como puedo,
onque desconozco el castellano,
unas cosas que los llàman versos
cuyo nombre está mal aplicado.(...)
Pero como é tan gran láfición que tiengo
no lo puedo remediá;
penso 'scribine mientras viva
y quizás n'escriba má allá(...)

Cleto Torrodellas Español, Estadilla, Huesca, Aragón, 1868...estió un poeta aragonés.

DEBORAH...SHE WAS A POET!...PROPHETESS...JUDGE!!!...HANNAH, MY ANA..."IF I CUOLD CHOOSE AGAIN I'D STILL CHOOSE YOU"...

2009-11-15T01:06:00.000-08:00

THE SONG OF DEBORAH

On that day Deborah and Barak son of Abinoam sang this song:

When the princes in Israel take the lead,
when the people willingly offer themselves -
praise the LORD!

Hear this, you kings!Listen, you rulers!
I will sing to the Lord, I will sing;
I will make music to the Lord, the God of Israel.

O Lord, when you went out from Seir,
when you marched nfrom the land of Edom,
the earth shook, the heavens poured,
the clouds poured down water.

The mountains quaked before the Lord, One of Sinai,
before the Lord, the God of Israel.

In the days of Shamgar son of Anath,
in the days of Jael, the roads were abandoned;
travelers took to winding paths.

Village life in Israel ceased,
ceased until I, Deborah, arose,
arose a mother in Israel.

When they chose new gods,
war came to the city gates,
and not a shield or spear was seen
among forty thousand in Israel.

My heart the willing volunteers among the people.
Praise the LORD!

You who ride on white donkeys,
sitting on your saddle blankets,
and you who walk along the road,
consider the voice of the singers at the watering places.
They recite the righteous acts of warriors in Israel.
Then the people of the LORD
went down to the city gates.

Wake up, make up, break out in song!
Arise, O Barak!
Take captive your captives, O son of Abinoam.

Then the men who were left
came down to the nobles;
the people of the LORD
came to me with the mighty.

Some came from Ephraim, whose roots were in Amalek;
Benjamin was with the people who followed you.
From Makir captains came down,
from Zebulun those who bear a commander's staff.

The princes of Issachar were with Deborah;
yes, Issachar was with Barak,
rushing after him into the valley.
In the districts of Reuben
there was much searching of heart.

Why did you stay among the campfires
to hear the whistling for the flocks?
In the districts of Reuben
there was much searching of heart

Gilead stayed beyond the Jordan.
And Dan, why did he linger by the ships?
Asher remained on the coast
and stayed in his coves.

The people of Zebulun risked their very lives;
so did Naphtali on the heigts of the field.

Kings came, they fought
at Taanach by the waters of Megiddo
but they carried off no silver, no plunder.

From the heavens the stars fought,
from their courses they fought against Sisera.

The river Kishon swept them away,
the age-old river, the river Kishon.
March on, my soul; be strong!

Then thundered the horses' hoofs -
galloping, galloping go his mighty steeds.

"Curse Meroz," said the angel of the LORD.
"Curse its peoples bitterly,
because they did not come to help the LORD,
to help the LORD,
to help the LORD against the mighty."

Most blessed of women be Jael,
the wife of Heber the Kenite,
most blessed of tent-dwelling women.

He asked for water, and she gave him milk;
in a bowl fit for nobles she brought him curdled milk.

Her hand reached for the workman's hammer.
She struck Sisera, she crushed his head,
she shattered and pierced his temple.

At her feet he sank,
he fell;there he lay.
At her feet he ank, he fell;
where he sank, there he fell-dead.

Trough the window peered Sisera's mother;
behind the lattice she cried out,
Why is his chariot so long in coming?
Why is chariot so long in coming?
Why is the clatter of his chariots delayed?

The wisest of her ladies answer her;
indeed, she keeps saying to herself,

Are they not finding and dividing the spoils:
a girl or two for each man,
colorful garments as plunder for Sisera,
colorful garments embroidered garments for my neck -
all this as plunder?

So may all your enemies perish, O LORD!
But may they who love be like the sun
when it rises in its strength.
Then the land had peace forty years.

Dated at approximately 1200 B.C., Deborah served as a judge at "the palm tree of Deborah" in southern Ephraim between Ramah and Bethel, thereby possibly making her of the tribe of Ephraim, as was Joshua earlier.She was referred to as the "MOTHER OF ISRAEL".

"CANCIONEIRINHO de MOLÊDO da PENAJÓIA"...á Dona Ana de Valclaro!

2009-09-19T03:15:00.000-07:00

"Vendo tudo quanto tenho,
memória e imaginação,
por cinco reis de alegria
pra dar ao meu coração"

"Não há negro como o melro
não há branco como o leite
as mocinhas do Moledo
têm olhinhos de confeito"

"Moledo da Penajóia
no fundo da freguesia:
à beira do rio é noite,
por cima da terra é dia"

"Vindimai, vindimadores,
ninguém vindima como eu:
a fruta, que vai, é vossa,
o cantar, que fica, é meu."

...poesia popular da freguesia da Penajóia, Lamego, coligida pela poetiza Cecília Meirelles, nos anos trinta do século passado.

MEERA BAI..."SATI NA HOSYAN GIRDHAR GANSYAN MHARA MAN MOHO GHANANAMI"...ao Mestre Valdemar!...e a São Martinho de Mouros!

2009-08-26T13:58:00.000-07:00

O my Prince

This infamy.O my Prince
is delicious!
Some revile me,
others applaud.
I simply follow my incomprehensible road
A razor thin path
but you meet some good people,
A terrible path but you hear a true word
Turn back?
Because the wretched stare and see nothing?
O Mira´s Lord is noble and dark,
and slanderers
rake only themselves
over the coals.

MEERA BAI, a Rajput princess, was born in Kudki ( Kurki ), a little village near Merta in northwest India, c.1498

Siddhãrtha Gautama..."Buddham saranam gacchami.Dhammam saranam gacchami.Sangham saranam gacchami."

2009-06-19T12:59:00.000-07:00

THE JUST

Whoever settles a matter by violence is not just.
The wise calmly considers what is right and what is wrong.
Whoever guides others by a procedure
that is nonviolent and fair
is said to be a guardian of truth, wise and just.

A person is not wise simply because one talks much.
Whoever is patient, free from hate and fear,
is said to be wise.

A person is not a supporter of justice
simple because one talks much.
Even if a person has learned little,
whoever discerns justice with the body
and does not neglect justice is a supporter of justice.

A person is not an elder
simply because one's head is gray.
Age can be ripe, but one may be called "old in vain."
The one in whom there is truth,
virtue, nonviolence, restraint, moderation,
whoever is free from impurity and is wise,
may be called an elder.

Mere talk or beauty of complexion does not make
an envious, greedy, dishonest person become respectable.
The one in whom all these are destroyed,
torn out by the very root,
who is free from hate and is wise, is called respectable.

Not by a shaven head does one who is undisciplined
and speaks falsely become an ascetic.
Can a person be an ascetic
who is still enslaved by desire and greed?
Whoever always quiets wrong tendencies, small or large,
is called an ascetic, because of having quieted all wrong.

A person is not a mendicant
simply because one bags from others.
Whoever adopts the whole truth is a mendicant,
not the one who adopts only a part.
Whoever is above good and bad and is chaste,
who carefully passes through the world in meditation,
is truly called a mendicant.

A person does not become a sage by silence,
if one is foolish and ignorant;
but the wise one, who, holding a scale,
takes what is good and avoids what is bad,
is a sage for that reason.
Whoever in this world weighs both sides
is called a sage because of that.

A person is not a noble,
because one injures living beings.
One is called noble,
because one does not injure living beings.

Not only by discipline and vows,
not only by much learning,
nor by deep concentration nor by sleeping alone
do I reach the joy of release which the worldly cannot know.

Mendicant, do not be confident
until you have reached the extinction of impurities.

Siddhãrtha Gautama, ( 563 BC, Lumbini, Nepal - 483 BC, Kushinagar, India )

MWANA KUPONA...Poetess...Africa,my Africa!

2009-05-22T10:54:00.000-07:00

NEGEMA "Come near me"

Negema wangu binti
Mchachefu wa sanati
Upulike wasiati
Asa ukazingatia.

Maradhi yamenishika
Hata yametimu mwaka
Sikupata kutamka
Neno lema kukwambia.

Alinioa babako
Kwafuraha na kicheko
Tusondoleane mbeko
Siku zote twalokaa.

Yalipokuya faradhi
Kanikariria radhi
Kashukuru kafawidhi
Moyo wangu katoshea.

Mwenye kutungo nudhumu
Ni bharibu mwenye hamu
Na ubora wa ithimu
Rabbi tamghufiria.

Ina lake mufahamu
Ni mtaraji karimu
Mwana kupona mshamu
Pate alikozaliwa.

Tarikhiye kwa yakini
Ni alifu wa miyateni
Hamsa wa sabini
Hizi zote hirijia.

Mwana Kupona binti Msham, ( 1790 - Pate island ; 1860 - Lamu island ) Africa.

"Come near me, my daughter
I am unworthy of God's award
Listen to my advice
May be you will follow it

I have fallen ill
It is a year now since I became sick
I have not taken time
To offer you advice.

Your father married me
In a joyous ceremony
We respected each other
All the days we lived together

When his fate came
He blessed me repeatedly
He thankfully and peacefully died
And I was contented in my heart.

The composer of this work
Is a sorrowful widow
The worst of her sins.
The lord will forgive

Her name, take note
She is
Mwana Kupona Mshamu
Born at Pate

The date
of the poem
is 1275
(A.H.ca 1858)"

Juan Wallparrimachi Mayta...Mamay...para ti...

2009-05-09T02:33:00.000-07:00

Mamay - mi madre

Ima phuyun jaqay phuyu,

yanayasqaj wasaykamun?

mamaypaj waqayninchari

paraman tukuspa jamun.

"Qué nube puede ser aquella nube

que obscurecida se aproxima?

será tal vez el llanto de mi madre

que viene en lluvia convertido."

Tukuytapis inti k'anchan,

noqayllatas manapuni.

tukuypajpis kusi kawsan,

noqay waqaspallapuni.

"El sol alumbra a todos

menos a mí.

No falta dicha para nadie;

mas para mí solo hay dolor."

Pujyumanta aswan ashkata

má rejsispa waqarqani,

mana pipas pichaj kajtin

noqallataj mulip'urqani.

"Porque no pude conocerla

lloré más harto que la fuente,

y porque no hubo quien me asista

mis proprias lágrimas bebí."

Yakumanpis urmaykuni,

"Yaku, apallawayña", nispa.

Yakupis aqoykamuwan

"Riyraj, mask'amuyraj", nispa.

"También al agua me arrojé

queriendo que ella me arrastrara.

Pero el agua me echó a la orilla

diciéndome:"Anda aún a buscarla."

Paychus sonqoyta rikunman,

yawar qhochapi wayt'asqán,

khishkamanta jarap'asqa,

pay jinallataj waqasqan.

"Si ella viera mi corazón,

cómo nada en lago de sangre.

Envuelto en maraña de espinas,

lo mismo que ella está llorando."

Juan Wallparrimachi Mayta, sutiyuq runaqa ( 1793 watapi paqarisqa, 1814 watapi wañusca ), Qhichwa simillapi qillqaqsi karkqan. (poeta guerrillero, nació en el pueblo de Macha, provincia Chayanta del departmento de

HORACIO ...CARPE DIEM...para o Johnny!

2009-04-30T02:42:00.000-07:00

Odes I,,11.8

Tu ne quaesieris, scire nefas, quem
mihi, quem tibi

finem di dederint, Leuconoe, nec
Babylonios

temptaris numeros, ut melius, quidquid
erit, pati.

seu pluris hiemes seu tribuit Iuppiter
ultimam,

quae nunc oppositis debilitat pumicibus
mare

Tyrrhenum:sapias, vina liques et
spatio brevi

spem longam reseces.dum loquimur,
fugerit invida

aetas:CARPE DIEM quam minimum
credula postero.

Quintus Horatius Flaccus, (Venusia - Apulia, 65 a.c. - 8 a.c. Roma)

"Não indagues muito:é cruel querer saber
que fim nos reservaram os deuses;nem
fiques consultando os números babilônios.
´Pode ser que Júpiter te conceda muitos invernos,
ou sómente este último, como expressa agora
o mar Tirreno ao bater nas rochas.
Sê sensato, bebe teu vinho e abrevia as longas esperanças,
pois o tempo foge enquanto aqui parlamos.
CURTE O DIA DE HOJE - não te fies no futuro!"

"Mejor será aceptar lo que venga,
ya sean muchos los inviernos que Júpiter
te conceda, o sea éste el último,
el que ahora hace que el mar Tirreno
rompa contra los opuestos cantiles.
No seas loca, filtra tus vinos
y adapta al breve espacio de tu vida
una esperanza larga.
Mientras hablamos, huye el tiempo envidioso.
VIVE EL DÍA DE HOY, no fíes del incierto mañana."

"Don't ask(it's forbidden to know)what final fate the gods
have

what end the gods will give me or you, Leuconoe.Don´t
play with Babylonian

fortune-telling either.It is better to endure whatever will
be.

Whether Jupiter has allotted to you many more winters or
this final one

which even now wears out the Tyrrhenian sea on the
rocks placed opposite

- be smart, drink your wine.Scale back your long hopes

to a short period.While we speak, envious time will have
(already)fled

SEIZE THE DAY and place no trust in tomorrow."

Li Qingzhao "as almas das poetizas são todas feitas de luz, como a dos astros:não ofuscam, iluminam..."

2009-04-17T02:41:00.000-07:00

The flowers are all right

My sleep last night was troubled by a violent storm outside,
and when i work i still felt dizzy from the lingering effect of wine;
Anxiously i asked the maid who rolled up the bamboo curtains,
to my surprise came her reply, "the flowers are all right."
But that's impossible, and don't you know all would remain a scene,
of petals fallen and leaves of their company sorrowfully deprived!

Li Quingzhao, (1084 dc. - c. 1151 dc.), Licheng, China

Yeshua..."o meu nome não interessa..."...para ti...meu Irmão.

2009-04-05T09:27:00.000-07:00

Abvum D'bashmaia

Abvum D'bashmaia
Netcádash shimóch
Teté malcutách una
Nehué tcevianách aicana d'bashimáia af b'arha
Hóvlan lácma d'suncanán iaomána
Uashbocan háubein uahtehín aicána dáf quinan shbuocán l'haiabéin
Uéla tahlan l'nesiúna, éla patssan min bixa
Metúl diláhie malcutá uaháila uateshbúcta láhlám,
Almín.

Yeshua, ( c.06 a.c. - c.30 d.c. ), Belém, Judéia.

En-hedu-Anna...margarida...para ti...

2009-03-27T23:30:00.000-07:00

Hymnal prayer of En-hedu-anna to Inanna

Queen of all the me, Radiant Light,

Life-giving Woman, beloved of An (and) Urash,

Hierodule of An, much bejeweled,

Who loves the life-giving tiara, fit for en-ship,

Who grasps in (her) hand, the seven me,

My Queen, you who are the Guardian of All the Great me,

You have lifted the me, have tied the me to Your hands,

Have gathered the me, pressed the me to Your breast...

"Senhora de todas as essências, cheia de luz,

Boa mulher, vestida de esplendor,

Que possui o amor do céu e da terra,

Amiga do templo de An,

Tu usas adornos maravilhosos,

Tu desejas a tiara da alta sacerdotisa

Cujas mãos seguram as sete essências.

Ó minha Senhora, guardiã de todas as boas essências,

Tu as reuniste e as fizeste emanar de tuas mãos.

Tu colheste as essências santas e as trazes contigo,

Apertadas em teus seios..."

En-hedu-anna ( 2.300 a.c. ), Ur, Suméria.

Nezahualcóyotl

2009-03-21T09:38:00.000-07:00

Amo el canto de zenzontle

pájaro de cuatrocientas voces,

Amo el color de jade

y el enervante perfume de las flores.

Pero más amo a mi hermano:el hombre...

Nezahualcóyotl (1402 - 1474 ), Tetzouco