Within a Sky Full of Earth

'THE SOLDIER, HIS WIFE AND THE BUM'
I was a bum in San Francisco that once managed to go to a symphony concert along with the well dressed people. And the music was good but something about the audience was not. And something about the orchestra and the conductor was not. Although the building was fine and the acoustics perfect I preferred to listen to the music alone on my radio.

And afterwards I did go back to my room and I turned on the radio. But there was a pounding on the wall. 'Shut that god damn thing off!' There was a soldier in the next room bubbling with his wife and soon he would be going over there to protect me from Hitler. So I snapped the radio off and then I heard his wife say 'You shouldn't have done that'. And the soldier said 'Fuck that guy' which I thought was a very nice thing for him to tell his wife to do. Of course she never did.

Anyhow I never went to another live concert. And that night I listened to the radio very quietly, my ear pressed to the speaker.

War has it's price and peace never lasts. And millions of young men everywhere will die. As I listened to the classical music I heard them making love. Desperately and mournfully, through Shostakovich, Brahms, Mozart, through crescendo and climax and through the shared walls of our darkness.
BY CHARLES BUKOWSKI

Each man kills the thing he loves, by each let this be heard.
Some do it with a bitter look, some with a flattering word.
The coward does it with a kiss, the brave man with a sword.

Some kill their love when they are young, some when they are old.
Some strangle with the hands of lust, some with the hands of gold.
The kindest use a knife because, the dead so soon grow cold.

Some love too little, some too long, some buy and other sell.
Some do the deed with so many tears, and some without a sigh.
For each man kills the thing he loves, yet each man does not die.
Each Man Kills the Thing He Loves by GAVIN FRIDAY • WORDS by OSCAR WILDE

Não porque não quisesse.
Não porque não soubesse.

Mas se calhar,
podendo calhar bem,
no confronto com certos egoísmos
e calhava sempre bem,
podia,
esse mesmo escritor,
fazer-se valer da reabilitada desculpa escrita de que nos servimos,
em não querer, entre várias coisas, dividir
lugares pretensamente comuns,
naturalmente dissolvidos por promessas verbais,
na côdea de um silêncio destoante.

From the body to the soul
Where our hearts lead we must go
Wherever love may flow
Oman by DEAD CAN DANCE • TOWARDS THE WHITHIN • 4AD • 1994

Don’t scream out now, from the faceless
A silent shout, no you shouldn’t
Stand, don’t you stand, don’t you stand in this crowd
Oh, don’t you stand, don’t you stand in this crowd
Clear cut and drowned, like it’s bleeding
Don’t make a sound, you know you couldn’t
Stand, don’t you stand, don’t you stand in this crowd
Oh, don’t you stand, don’t you stand in this crowd
Run where you can, while you can
Run where you can, while you can
Embracing time…
CARNIVÀLE BY KINEMATIC • 2007

I will be
the first person in history
to die of boredom
and I will have as my epitaph
the second line of 'black ship in the harbour'
I'll rest this case
condemn my race
I'll stab a knife into the face
of any man who dares to oppose me
DECLARATION by FELT • POEM OF THE RIVER • 1987

Cidade
Sem muros nem ameias
Gente igual por dentro
Gente igual por fora
Onde a folha da palma
afaga a cantaria
Cidade do homem
Não do lobo, mas irmão
Capital da alegria

Braço que dormes
nos braços do rio
Toma o fruto da terra
É teu a ti o deves
lança o teu desafio

Homem que olhas nos olhos
que não negas
o sorriso, a palavra forte e justa
Homem para quem
o nada disto custa
Será que existe
lá para os lados do oriente
Este rio, este rumo, esta gaivota
Que outro fumo deverei seguir
na minha rota?
por JOSÉ AFONSO

porquê mais água
se essa me sobeja
e a sede já passou
ESTIMA DE OLIVEIRA, 1996

Before time, everytime my sista like be the boss of the food.
We stay shopping in Mizuno Superette
and my madda pull the Oreos off the shelf
and my sista already saying, Mommy,
can be the boss of the Oreos?

The worse was when she was the boss
of the sunflower seeds.
She give me and my other sistas
one seed at a time.
We no could eat the meat.
Us had to put um in one pile on one Kleenex.
Then, when we wen' take all the meat
out of the shells and our lips stay all cho cho,
she give us the seeds one at a time
cause my sista, she the boss
of the sunflower seeds.

One time she was the boss
of the Raisinettes.
Us was riding in the back
of my granpa's Bronco down Kaunakakai Wharf.
There she was, passing us one Raisinette at a time.
My mouth was all watery
'cause I like eat um all one time, eh?
So I wen' tell her, Gimme that bag.
And I wen' grab um.
She said, I'ng tell Mommy.
And I said, Go you fuckin' bird killa;
tell Mommy.

She wen' let go the bag.
And I wen' start eating the Raisinetes all one time.
But when I wen' look at her,
I felt kinda bad cause I wen' call her bird killa.
She was boss of the parakeet too, eh,
and she suppose to cover the cage every night.
But one time, she wen' forget.
When us wen' wake up, the bugga was on its back,
legs in the air all stiff.
The bugga was cold.
And I guess the thing that made me feel bad
was I neva think calling her bird killa
would make her feel so bad
that she let go the bag Raisinettes.

But I neva give her back the bag.
I figga what the fuck.
I ain't going suffer eating one Raisinette at a time.
Then beg her for one mo
and I mean one mo
fuckin' candy.
BY LOIS-ANN YAMANAKA

"Boss of the Food" was the introdoctury text that Shirley Lim brougth to us. She read it aloud with all the tones of the little young girl who was supposed to be the voice of this story on the form of a beautiful poem. Lois-Ann Yamanaka is a Japanese American writer from Hawai. She often uses this Hawaiian Pidgin. Somehow shows how your inner voice can be reached on your own special language. And that's what was all about: bringing up your voice as a creative writer.

Levei-me a constatar que determinados meus gostos,
por mim sempre escolhidos a dedo e a preceito,
foram por ele vividos através de uma maneira que se limitou a ser.

Os meus gostos por tantas coisas
que ele gosta
e não encontro, porque não consigo, em mais nem menos ninguém.

Com as suas mãos,
soube trabalhar na perfeição
de quem conhece a sua arte,
o barro desse momento revelador
dessa rara recriação de um acontecimento.

Lá longe,
apesar de titular de um bilhete interrupto dessa distância,
dei por mim,
a moldar a sua hipotética felicidade,
que poderia um dia vir a sentir nossa,
de um modo infeliz.
sempre de um modo infeliz.

Deixar de amar alguém leva, como ninguém nos precisa de "aconselhar", o seu tempo,

capaz de fundar, em forma de cidades,
questões sem resposta concreta,
motoras da procura do intricado acesso
com sabor a uma nova liberdade.

Nesse compasso,
dianteiro da relatividade do tempo,
fui automaticamente inscrita num dos árduos cursos que a vida, a dado momento, se encarregou de me dar a conhecer.

De nome Reavaliação,
composto pelo número de frases,
conscientes,
rápidas,
letais e
renovadas da inconsciência que é o estado de graça de seM-ti-(r).

More aspects of Rimbaud are known than can be assimilated: his vastly various, influential and innovative poetry itself; his expressive letters; his scornful and unhesitating permanent abandonment of poetry at the age of 20; the anecdotes of his contemporaries showing him as a drunken, filthy, amoral homosexualteenager who becomes a reserved, hard-working, responsible and respectable (if misanthropic and disgust-ridden) adult merchant and explorer. One would have to be a genius oneself to grasp the full significance of Arthur Rimbaud, or at least have the ability to hold many opposed ideas in one’s mind at the same time and still function fully. Numerous writers have sought to demonstrate their qualifications along these lines by publishing studies of him.
This biography by Edmund White is the digest version. If you’re casually curious about the fuss made over Rimbaud and want the lowdown from someone literate, it will satisfy you, without badly misleading. This approach seems to be the plan behind the series of short lives, each written by a distinguished author (often a novelist or scholar, not usually a professional biographer) and edited by James Atlas, first for Penguin, now for Atlas & Company, of which “Rimbaud” is the latest entry. Seems like a worthy idea; there are a lot of famous artists and thinkers one wouldn’t mind getting a convenient little handle on.[...]
[RICHARD HELL for THE NEW YORK TIMES • FOLLOW READING HERE]

Rimbaud, The Double Life of a Rebel, by Edmund White
ATLAS & COMPANY • 192 PAGES • HARDCOVER • OCT 2008
[Read a sample chapter here]

Não sei se me faço entender, embora entenda com tanta facilidade o que acabei de escrever.

Qualquer coisa?

sei.
claro que sei.
seria desonesta se dissesse que não sabia.

mas sim, sei.
e hoje fizeste questão de fazer com que soubesse.
e soube o que já sabia.

que sei.
claro que sei.
serei honesta ao dizer que sei.
[* Pelo teu amor]

dos meus sonhos,
sonhos, que me esqueci
e me permiti "reinventar", mantenho em brasa a meia metade percorrida da
outra metade de um sonho
por sonhar,
os meus sonhos,
alimentados de palavras meio adormecidas, que hoje valem por
si.

Provoco,
na imediata constatação,
o meu reencontro contra a luz,
despindo da alma
o próprio peso do corpo.

Desse processo,
onde as horas passam - por mim -
Transformadas em vírgulas, no interior da cessação de movimento, ganham vida e circulam palavras,
como forma de inocente salvação expiada.

      The only nation
                                       I ever gave
allegiance to
          was
                     hibernation.
[BY MARTIN C. - The best writer of Macau]

São essas as palavras
que vejo
celebrando na tua boca
todo o curso de uma língua
que no silêncio
soletram a ínfima forma dos teus lábios
Um pequeno vento
uma curva suave
talvez o olhar distante
Tentado a ouvir o que sentes
que sem necessidade de falas
é tudo o que fica por dizer.
[TROCAR BOCA POR LÁBIOS POR LÍNGUA]

Manfish – Before Jacques Cousteau became an internationally known oceanographer and champion of the seas, he was a curious little boy. In this lovely biography, poetic text and gorgeous paintings combine to create a portrait of Jacques Cousteau that is as magical as it is inspiring. This is a new and enganging biography beneath the sea level you cannot let it drown. Mostly for kids (3-6's) but also for grown-ups. Prepare your swimming gear to join us on this adventure.

ABOUT THE AUTHORS
Jennifer Berne, a contributing writer for Nick Jr. magazine, enjoys writing about our amazing universe. This is her first children's book. She lives in Columbia County, New York.
Award-winning illustrator Éric Puybaret has illustrated several books for children. He lives in Paris, France.

Manfish, A Story of Jacques Cousteau, by Jennifer Berne
Illustrated by Éric Puybaret • CHRONICLE BOOKS • 40 PAGES • MAY 2008