Ode to the West Wind

I

O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being,
Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead
Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,

Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,
Pestilence-stricken multitudes: O Thou,
Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed

The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low,
Each like a corpse within its grave, until
Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow

Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill
(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air)
With living hues and odours plain and hill:

Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere;
Destroyer and Preserver; hear, O hear!

II

Thou on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's commotion,
Loose clouds like Earth's decaying leaves are shed,
Shook from the tangled boughs of Heaven and Ocean,

Angels of rain and lightning: there are spread
On the blue surface of thine aery surge,
Like the bright hair uplifted from the head

Of some fierce Maenad, even from the dim verge
Of the horizon to the zenith's height,
The locks of the approaching storm. Thou Dirge

Of the dying year, to which this closing night
Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre,
Vaulted with all thy congregated might

Of vapours, from whose solid atmosphere
Black rain and fire and hail will burst: O hear!

III

Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams
The blue Mediterranean, where he lay,
Lulled by the coil of his chrystalline streams,

Beside a pumice isle in Baiae's bay,
And saw in sleep old palaces and towers
Quivering within the wave's intenser day,

All overgrown with azure moss and flowers
So sweet, the sense faints picturing them! Thou
For whose path the Atlantic's level powers

Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below
The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear
The sapless foliage of the ocean, know

Thy voice, and suddenly grow grey with fear,
And tremble and despoil themselves: O hear!

IV

If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear;
If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee;
A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share

The impulse of thy strength, only less free
Than thou, O Uncontrollable! If even
I were as in my boyhood, and could be

The comrade of thy wanderings over Heaven,
As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speed
Scarce seemed a vision; I would ne'er have striven

As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need.
Oh! lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud!
I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed!

A heavy weight of hours has chained and bowed
One too like thee: tameless, and swift, and proud.

V

Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is:
What if my leaves are falling like its own!
The tumult of thy mighty harmonies

Will take from both a deep, autumnal tone,
Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce,
My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one!

Drive my dead thoughts over the universe
Like withered leaves to quicken a new birth!
And, by the incantation of this verse,

Scatter, as from an unextinguished hearth
Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind!
Be through my lips to unawakened Earth

The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind,
If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?

Percy Bysshe Shelley

Leave me, O love

Leave me, O love which reachest but to dust ; 

And thou, my mind, aspire to higher things ; 

Grow rich in that which never taketh rust, 

Whatever fades but fading pleasure brings. 

Draw in thy beams, and humble all thy might 

To that sweet yoke where lasting freedoms be ; 

Which breaks the clouds and opens forth the light, 

That doth both shine and give us sight to see. 

O take fast hold ;  let that light be thy guide 

In this small course which birth draws out to death, 

And think how evil becometh him to slide, 

Who seeketh heav'n, and comes of heav'nly breath. 

    Then farewell, world ;  thy uttermost I see ; 

    Eternal Love, maintain thy life in me.

                                                                                                  Sir Philip Sidney

The Castaway

Obscurest night involv'ed the sky,
Th' Atlantic billows roar'd,
When such a destin'd wretch as I,
Wash'd headlong from on board,
Of friends, of hope, of all bereft,
His floating home for ever left.

No braver chief could Albion boast
Than he with whom he went,
Nor ever ship left Albion's coast,
With warmer wishes sent.
He lov'd them both, but both in vain,
Nor him beheld, nor her again.

Not long beneath the whelming brine,
Expert to swim, he lay;
Nor soon he felt his strength decline,
Or courage die away;
But wag'd with death a lasting strife,
Supported by despair of life.

He shouted: nor his friends had fail'd
To check the vessel's course,
But so the furious blast prevail'd,
That, pitiless perforce,
They left their outcast mate behind,
And scudded still before the wind.

Some succour yet they could afford;
And, such as storms allow,
The cask, the coop, the floated cord,
Delay'd not to bestow.
But he (they knew) nor ship, nor shore,
Whate'er they gave, should visit more.

Nor, cruel as it seem'd, could he
Their haste himself condemn,
Aware that flight, in such a sea,
Alone could rescue them;
Yet bitter felt it still to die
Deserted, and his friends so nigh.

He long survives, who lives an hour
In ocean, self-upheld;
And so long he, with unspent pow'r,
His destiny repell'd;
And ever, as the minutes flew,
Entreated help, or cried--Adieu!

At length, his transient respite past,
His comrades, who before
Had heard his voice in ev'ry blast,
Could catch the sound no more.
For then, by toil subdued, he drank
The stifling wave, and then he sank.

No poet wept him: but the page
Of narrative sincere;
That tells his name, his worth, his age,
Is wet with Anson's tear.
And tears by bards or heroes shed
Alike immortalize the dead.

I therefore purpose not, or dream,
Descanting on his fate,
To give the melancholy theme
A more enduring date:
But misery still delights to trace
Its semblance in another's case.

No voice divine the storm allay'd,
No light propitious shone;
When, snatch'd from all effectual aid,
We perish'd, each alone:
But I beneath a rougher sea,
And whelm'd in deeper gulfs than he.

William Cooper

A estrela

Vi uma estrela tão alta, Vi uma estrela tão fria! Vi uma estrela luzindo Na minha vida vazia. Era uma estrela tão alta! Era uma estrela tão fria! Era uma estrela sozinha Luzindo no fim do dia. Por que da sua distância Para a minha companhia Não baixava aquela estrela? Por que tão alto luzia? E ouvi-a na sombra funda Responder que assim fazia Para dar uma esperança Mais triste ao fim do meu dia.                                                                                               Manuel Bandeira

o ÚLTIMO iMPERADOR

Acabo de assistir o filme de Bernardo Bertoluci: O Último Imperador...

O filme que ganhou todos os oscars que disputou (9) também entra pra minha galeria de filmes pra se ver novamente. Já disseram que os clássicos são aqueles que queremos reencontrar, reler, tocar novamente, ver novamente, etc....Eu diria hoje que um clássico é como uma máquina do tempo: te transporta pra outro mundo por alguns instantes ou horas...nós não retornamos do mesmo jeito. Impossível não acompanhar a história do filme de forma fria: não somos assim!Não somos racionais! Somos humanos, olhamos para tudo e vemos mais que simples objetos ou interpretações ou músicas. Somos cheios de sentimentos, não de números ou equações. Há tanto dentro de nós e todos sabemos disso. Alguns não falam, outros não vêem a necessidade, mas todos passamos e lembramos do que verdadeiramente importa. O último Imperador é baseado na história real do Último imperador coroado da China e recomendo: vale as quase três horas de filme. Eu, como artista, não posso deixar aqui minha gratidão a pessoas como Bertoluci, ou pessoas como Brahms, Rachmaninoff, e, voltando ao cinema, Kazan, Ridley Scott, ou mesmo aos bíblicos, tais como Spurgeon ou Stott ou C.S. Lewis. Não há como passar pela vida e não aprender um pouco com eles: seria muito egoísmo....não há como assistir, por exemplo, o primeiro capítulo de Lost, ver Kate clamando por Jack em meio ao caos e não perceber, não enxergar toda a nossa fragilidade alí. Não há como ouvir a interpretação de Glenn Gould do intermezzo op. 118 n. 2 de Brahms, ou a de Horowitz nas Cenas Infantis, de Schumann,  e não parar o pensamento...Há tanto para lembrar...

Nesse ano que começa pra mim hoje, logo depois de ver esse filme, eu gostaria de agradecer. Como alguém poderia pensar a vida sem arte? Deus certamente não.... a Ele sim, Ele sim, minha eterna gratidão!

Symphony of Sorrowful song

esta é somente uma parte da sinfonia 2 de Gorecki. O compositor faleceu agora, dia 12/11/10......

Jars of Clay - Frail