Não gosto de imposições Nem de teorias Nem de bajulações
Não gosto de prisões Nem de gaiolas Nem de grandes salões Nem de grandes figurões
Não gosto de filosofias Nem de certezas Nem de realezas Não tenho fobias
Gosto de rir com gosto Do sol no rosto da praia marinha quando é Agosto
Da lua na rua Do quente do lar de te sentir meu par quando a palavra é nua
Gosto dos meus botões quando rimam com as minhas solidões
E gosto do meu quintal coisa só minha feudo meu ser onde sou rainha...
Irene Cordeiro Pereira (Professora e Poetisa portuguesa que publica aqui, 1968- )
Biografia Breve pela mão da Autora
Chamo-me Irene Cordeiro Pereira, tenho quarenta anos, sou professora de português e francês, moro em Porto de Mós, no distrito de Leiria. Sempre adorei ler, mas só comecei a escrever poesia aos quarenta! Pensei que não conseguia!
I am happy to join with you today in what will go down in history as the greatest demonstration for freedom in the history of our nation.
Five score years ago, a great American, in whose symbolic shadow we stand today, signed the Emancipation Proclamation. This momentous decree came as a great beacon light of hope to millions of Negro slaves who had been seared in the flames of withering injustice. It came as a joyous daybreak to end the long night of their captivity.
But one hundred years later, the Negro still is not free. One hundred years later, the life of the Negro is still sadly crippled by the manacles of segregation and the chains of discrimination. One hundred years later, the Negro lives on a lonely island of poverty in the midst of a vast ocean of material prosperity. One hundred years later, the Negro is still languishing in the corners of American society and finds himself an exile in his own land. So we have come here today to dramatize a shameful condition.
In a sense we have come to our nation's capital to cash a check. When the architects of our republic wrote the magnificent words of the Constitution and the Declaration of Independence, they were signing a promissory note to which every American was to fall heir. This note was a promise that all men, yes, black men as well as white men, would be guaranteed the unalienable rights of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.
It is obvious today that America has defaulted on this promissory note insofar as her citizens of color are concerned. Instead of honoring this sacred obligation, America has given the Negro people a bad check, a check which has come back marked "insufficient funds." But we refuse to believe that the bank of justice is bankrupt. We refuse to believe that there are insufficient funds in the great vaults of opportunity of this nation. So we have come to cash this check — a check that will give us upon demand the riches of freedom and the security of justice. We have also come to this hallowed spot to remind America of the fierce urgency of now. This is no time to engage in the luxury of cooling off or to take the tranquilizing drug of gradualism. Now is the time to make real the promises of democracy. Now is the time to rise from the dark and desolate valley of segregation to the sunlit path of racial justice. Now is the time to lift our nation from the quick sands of racial injustice to the solid rock of brotherhood. Now is the time to make justice a reality for all of God's children.
It would be fatal for the nation to overlook the urgency of the moment. This sweltering summer of the Negro's legitimate discontent will not pass until there is an invigorating autumn of freedom and equality. Nineteen sixty-three is not an end, but a beginning. Those who hope that the Negro needed to blow off steam and will now be content will have a rude awakening if the nation returns to business as usual. There will be neither rest nor tranquility in America until the Negro is granted his citizenship rights. The whirlwinds of revolt will continue to shake the foundations of our nation until the bright day of justice emerges.
But there is something that I must say to my people who stand on the warm threshold which leads into the palace of justice. In the process of gaining our rightful place we must not be guilty of wrongful deeds. Let us not seek to satisfy our thirst for freedom by drinking from the cup of bitterness and hatred.
We must forever conduct our struggle on the high plane of dignity and discipline. We must not allow our creative protest to degenerate into physical violence. Again and again we must rise to the majestic heights of meeting physical force with soul force. The marvelous new militancy which has engulfed the Negro community must not lead us to a distrust of all white people, for many of our white brothers, as evidenced by their presence here today, have come to realize that their destiny is tied up with our destiny. They have come to realize that their freedom is inextricably bound to our freedom. We cannot walk alone.
As we walk, we must make the pledge that we shall always march ahead. We cannot turn back. There are those who are asking the devotees of civil rights, "When will you be satisfied?" We can never be satisfied as long as the Negro is the victim of the unspeakable horrors of police brutality. We can never be satisfied, as long as our bodies, heavy with the fatigue of travel, cannot gain lodging in the motels of the highways and the hotels of the cities. We cannot be satisfied as long as the Negro's basic mobility is from a smaller ghetto to a larger one. We can never be satisfied as long as our children are stripped of their selfhood and robbed of their dignity by signs stating "For Whites Only". We cannot be satisfied as long as a Negro in Mississippi cannot vote and a Negro in New York believes he has nothing for which to vote. No, no, we are not satisfied, and we will not be satisfied until justice rolls down like waters and righteousness like a mighty stream.
I am not unmindful that some of you have come here out of great trials and tribulations. Some of you have come fresh from narrow jail cells. Some of you have come from areas where your quest for freedom left you battered by the storms of persecution and staggered by the winds of police brutality. You have been the veterans of creative suffering. Continue to work with the faith that unearned suffering is redemptive.
Go back to Mississippi, go back to Alabama, go back to South Carolina, go back to Georgia, go back to Louisiana, go back to the slums and ghettos of our northern cities, knowing that somehow this situation can and will be changed. Let us not wallow in the valley of despair.
I say to you today, my friends, so even though we face the difficulties of today and tomorrow, I still have a dream. It is a dream deeply rooted in the American dream.
I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: "We hold these truths to be self-evident: that all men are created equal."
I have a dream that one day on the red hills of Georgia the sons of former slaves and the sons of former slave owners will be able to sit down together at the table of brotherhood.
I have a dream that one day even the state of Mississippi, a state sweltering with the heat of injustice, sweltering with the heat of oppression, will be transformed into an oasis of freedom and justice.
I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.
I have a dream today.
I have a dream that one day, down in Alabama, with its vicious racists, with its governor having his lips dripping with the words of interposition and nullification; one day right there in Alabama, little black boys and black girls will be able to join hands with little white boys and white girls as sisters and brothers.
I have a dream today.
I have a dream that one day every valley shall be exalted, every hill and mountain shall be made low, the rough places will be made plain, and the crooked places will be made straight, and the glory of the Lord shall be revealed, and all flesh shall see it together.
This is our hope. This is the faith that I go back to the South with. With this faith we will be able to hew out of the mountain of despair a stone of hope. With this faith we will be able to transform the jangling discords of our nation into a beautiful symphony of brotherhood. With this faith we will be able to work together, to pray together, to struggle together, to go to jail together, to stand up for freedom together, knowing that we will be free one day.
This will be the day when all of God's children will be able to sing with a new meaning, "My country, 'tis of thee, sweet land of liberty, of thee I sing. Land where my fathers died, land of the pilgrim's pride, from every mountainside, let freedom ring."
And if America is to be a great nation this must become true. So let freedom ring from the prodigious hilltops of New Hampshire. Let freedom ring from the mighty mountains of New York. Let freedom ring from the heightening Alleghenies of Pennsylvania!
Let freedom ring from the snowcapped Rockies of Colorado!
Let freedom ring from the curvaceous slopes of California!
But not only that; let freedom ring from Stone Mountain of Georgia!
Let freedom ring from Lookout Mountain of Tennessee!
Let freedom ring from every hill and molehill of Mississippi. From every mountainside, let freedom ring.
And when this happens, when we allow freedom to ring, when we let it ring from every village and every hamlet, from every state and every city, we will be able to speed up that day when all of God's children, black men and white men, Jews and Gentiles, Protestants and Catholics, will be able to join hands and sing in the words of the old Negro spiritual, "Free at last! free at last! thank God Almighty, we are free at last!"
Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. (Pastor e activista político; Prémio Nobel da Paz em 1964, 1929-1968)
Lembra os dias antigos Em que cantavas a pureza Na nudez dos teus passos e gestos Ou dançavas na inocente vaidade Ao som dos «babadok». Relembra as trevas da tua inquietação E o silêncio das tuas expectativas, As chuvas, as memórias heróicas, Os milagres telúricos, Os fantasmas e os temores. Tenta lembrar a herança milenar dos teus avós Traduzida em sabedoria E verdade de todos. Recorda a festa das colheitas, A harmonia dos teus Ritos, A lição antiga da liberdade, Filha da natureza. Recorda a tua fé guerreira, A lealdade, E a ternura do teu lar sem limites, Nos caminhos do inesperado Ou no improviso da partilha definitiva. Lembra pela última vez Que a história da tua ancestralidade É a história da tua Terra Mãe...
Se eu pudesse pelas frias manhãs acordar tiritando fustigado pela ventania que me abre a cortina do céu e ver, do cimo dos meus montes, o quadro roxo de um perturbado nascer do sol a leste de Timor
Se eu pudesse pelos tórridos sóis cavalgar embevecido de encontro a mim mesmo nas serenas planícies do capim e sentir o cheiro de animais bebendo das nascentes que murmurariam no ar lendas de Timor
Se eu pudesse pelas tardes de calma sentir o cansaço da natureza sensual espreguiçando-se no seu suor e ouvir contar as canseiras sob os risos das crianças nuas e descalças de todo o Timor
Se eu pudesse ao entardecer das ondas caminhar pela areia entregue a mim mesmo no enlevo molhado da brisa e tocar a imensidão do mar num sopro da alma que permita meditar o futuro da ilha de Timor
Se eu pudesse ao cantar dos grilos falar para a lua pelas janelas da noite e contar-lhe romances do povo a união inviolável dos corpos para criar filhos e ensinar-lhes a crescer e a amar a Pátria Timor!
Xanana Gusmão (Líder da resistência Maubere, Político e poeta timorense, 1946- )
Timorese return to the burnt out remains of their homes only to find rogue elements with the departing Indonesian Military burning nearby buildings. East Timor September 1999. Foto: David Dare Parker
Reflexos da terra há muito deixada Por tantos e tantos chorada... Reflexos de um mar sedento de Paz Corado do sangue de todo o que jaz... Reflexos de um grito do Monte Cansado de tanto sofrer...
Reflexos, Reflexos de Timor...
Reflexos de quem clama a Justiça De um Mundo sem Lei nem Amor! Reflexos de um Povo que grita Liberdade, Liberdade, Viva Timor!
Abandon the past Throw away the baggage Suffer no more. Avast (stop now)
Breakaway from the chains and shackles Which from you, your life, take away; Breathe again; this time without constraint And the dreams in your eyes Realize;
Forget fear. Forget the barriers and the walls Even the greatest of mountains on your feet will fall When you with self-trust stand tall.
Walk away from those who try to cheat on your soul. Don’t stall. Remember the wisdom of those wiremen The universal law will square all.
Dream and don’t give up And if they don’t shape up Try. try once more. Don’t breakup.
For the race of life Is won, not, by the fastest or the strongest But, by the one who can give his all……….
Freedom. How her spirit Haunts, Hooks, Entices us all!
Freedom, Will the time come For my ideas to roam Across this vast land’s deserts, Through the caverns of the Empty Quarter?
For my voice to be sent forth, Crying out in the stillness of a quiet people, A voice among the voiceless?
For my thoughts, that hurl around In a never-ending spiral, To settle Mature, grow and flourish In a barren wasteland of shackled minds?
Will my spirit be set free— To soar above the undulating palm fronds? Will my essence and heart be unfettered, Forever Freed, Of man-made Thou Shall Nots?
I know what the caged bird feels, alas! When the sun is bright on the upland slopes; When the wind stirs soft through the springing grass, And the river flows like a stream of glass; When the first bird sings and the first bud opes, And the faint perfume from its chalice steals-- I know what the caged bird feels!
I know why the caged bird beats its wing Till its blood is red on the cruel bars; For he must fly back to his perch and cling When he fain would be on the bough a-swing; And a pain still throbs in the old, old scars And they pulse again with a keener sting-- I know why he beats his wing!
I know why the caged bird sings, ah me, When his wing is bruised and his bosom sore,-- When he beats his bars and he would be free; It is not a carol of joy or glee, But a prayer that he sends from his heart's deep core, But a plea, that upward to Heaven he flings-- I know why the caged bird sings!
Paul Laurence Dunbar (Poeta Norte-Americano, 1872-1906)
I was born in Mississippi; I walked barefooted thru the mud. Born black in Mississippi, Walked barefooted thru the mud. But, when I reached the age of twelve I left that place for good. My daddy chopped cotton And he drank his liquor straight. Said my daddy chopped cotton And he drank his liquor straight. When I left that Sunday morning He was leaning on the barnyard gate. Left my mama standing With the sun shining in her eyes. Left her standing in the yard With the sun shining in her eyes. And I headed North As straight as the Wild Goose Flies, I been to Detroit & Chicago Been to New York city too. I been to Detroit & Chicago Been to New York city too. Said I done strolled all those funky avenues I'm still the same old black boy with the same old blues. Going back to Mississippi This time to stay for good Going back to Mississippi This time to stay for good- Gonna be free in Mississippi Or dead in the Mississippi mud.
Se quiser caminhar sobre as águas Caminho! Nem que tenha de lutar contra ventos e tempestades Dobrar Cabos Sem Esperança e vontades Vencer um qualquer Adamastor. Se quiser voar como as aves Eu voo! Mesmo desafiando leis e gravidade Serei asas, voo e liberdade Quebrarei amarras do destino plano e raso E nada impedirá céu e voo. Se quiser como um verme rastejar Morder dos outros passos e terra Como um verme rastejarei! Porque minha É a minha vontade E minha a liberdade E se chão quiser ser Pó, terra e chão serei!
Encandescente (Poetisa e escritora criadora do blog Erotismo na Cidade), publicado a 11/08/2006.
Agarro a madrugada como se fosse uma criança uma roseira entrelaçada uma videira de esperança tal qual o corpo da cidade que manhã cedo ensaia a dança de quem por força da vontade de trabalhar nunca se cansa.
Vou pela rua desta lua que no meu Tejo acende o cio vou por Lisboa maré nua que se deságua no Rossio.
Eu sou um homem na cidade que manhã cedo acorda e canta e por amar a liberdade com a cidade se levanta.
Vou pela estrada deslumbrada da lua cheia de Lisboa até que a lua apaixonada cresça na vela da canoa.
Sou a gaivota que derrota todo o mau tempo no mar alto eu sou o homem que transporta a maré povo em sobressalto.
E quando agarro a madrugada colho a manhã como uma flor à beira mágoa desfolhada um malmequer azul na cor.
O malmequer da liberdade que bem me quer como ninguém o malmequer desta cidade que me quer bem que me quer bem!
Nas minhas mãos a madrugada abriu a flor de Abril também a flor sem medo perfumada com o aroma que o mar tem flor de Lisboa bem amada que mal me quis que me quer bem!
Une Seule Pensée" (Um Único Pensamento) foi escrito em 1942, em França, durante a ocupação nazi e foi transportado clandestinamente para a Inglaterra.
Em 1943, foi traduzido para vários idiomas, e distribuído como um panfleto, lançado por aviões aliados nos céus da Europa em guerra.
O responsável por contrabandear essa preciosidade, da França ocupada para Inglaterra, foi o pintor brasileiro, Cícero Dias. Como reconhecimento pela sua proeza, Dias foi condecorado, em 1998, pelo governo francês, com a Ordem Nacional do Mérito.
Foto: Nuno Belo
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