Garden of Persephone

Give me odorous at sunrise a garden of beautiful flowers where I can walk undisturbed.
Walt Whitman










Este colar foi criado com muito carinho.
É o primeiro de uma nova colecção que estou a fazer, e pela primeira vez decoro com renda.
Está nas lojas etsy e dawanda.

Pieces

Fotos minhas fotos da Pata fotos do Zé fotos do Paulo ilustrações Black Apple

Sympathies, heart-valves, palate-valves, sexuality, maternity, Womanhood, and all that is a woman, and the man that comes from woman, The womb, the teats, nipples, breast-milk, tears, laughter, weeping, love-looks, love-perturbations and risings, The voice, articulation, language, whispering, shouting aloud, Food, drink, pulse, digestion, sweat, sleep, walking, swimming, Poise on the hips, leaping, reclining, embracing, arm-curving and tightening, The continual changes of the flex of the mouth, and around the eyes,The skin, the sunburnt shade, freckles, hair, The curious sympathy one feels when feeling with the hand the naked meat of the body, The circling rivers the breath, and breathing it in and out, The beauty of the waist, and thence of the hips, and thence downward toward the knees,The thin red jellies within you or within me, the bones and the marrow in the bones,The exquisite realization of health;O I say these are not the parts and poems of the body only, but of the soul,O I say now these are the soul!

Walt Whitman

"Sim, é teu o céu, mas a terra, só o sábio e o intacto a conhecem" A.A.

Agora
somos só meninas em casa.
Sabe bem. Tem um sabor doce tem um sabor verdadeiro, que se mastiga mais devagar.
Tobias - o gato - olha por nós todas.

***


Ces battements de sang, ces transes étoilées
qui dans ta combustion trouvent leurs rythmes-nés
peuvent bien ramener l'éclat de tes pensées,
ta haine, ton amour, ta foi, ta charité,
au despotique accent de ce luth insensé
nommé coeur, Israfel, du ciel
et brûler comme lui pour le laisser chanter,
quand les astres portant ces transes sont muets,
c'est ton coeur, Israfel, qui les pousse à brûler,
car les passions du ciel sont celles d' Israfel.
Antonin Artaud


***

Victor Burgin - The bridge



I am Ophelia. She who the river could not hold. The woman on the gallows The woman with the slashed arteries The woman with the overdose ON THE LIPS SNOW The woman with the head in the gas-oven. Yesterday I stopped killing myself. I am alone with my breasts my thighs my lap. I rip apart the instruments of my imprisonment the Stool the Table the Bed. I destroy the battlefield that was my Home. I tear the doors off their hinges to let the wind and the cry of the World inside. I smash the Window. With my bleeding hands I tear the photographs of the men who I loved and who used me on the Bed on the Table on the Chair on the Floor. I set fire to my prison. I throw my clothes into the fire. I dig the clock which was my heart out of my breast. I go onto the street,
clothed in my blood.

Heiner Muller - Hamletmachine

Little feet

He wishes for the cloth of Heaven by William Yeats

Had I the heaven´s embroidered cloths, Enwrought with golden and silver light, The blue and the dim and the dark cloths Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the colours under your feet: But I, being poor, have only my dreams; I have spread my dreams under your feet; Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.



Já não servem nos pezinhos da Victória, embora ela os queira calçar.

I carry your heart with me

i carry your heart with me ( i carry it in my heart)

i am never without it (anywhere
i go you go, my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing, my darling)

e.e. cummings

Dylan Thomas

The force that through the green fuse drives the flower
by Dylan Thomas


The force that through the green fuse drives the flower
Drives my green age; that blasts the roots of trees
Is my destroyer.
And I am dumb to tell the crooked rose
My youth is bent by the same wintry fever.

The force that drives the water through the rocks
Drives my red blood; that dries the mouthing streams
Turns mine to wax.
And I am dumb to mouth unto my veins
How at the mountain spring the same mouth sucks.

The hand that whirls the water in the pool
Stirs the quicksand; that ropes the blowing wind
Hauls my shroud sail.
And I am dumb to tell the hanging man
How of my clay is made the hangman´s lime.

The lips of time leech to the fountain head;
Love drips and gathers, but the fallen blood
Shall calm her sores.
And I am dumb to tell a weather´s wind
How time as ticked a heaven round the stars.

And I am dumb to tell the lover´s tomb
How at my sheet goes the same crooked worm.



E amanhã Joanna Newsom no Theatro Circo, em Braga.