MANIFESTO


O que em filosofia política se chama «ideário», em poesia só pode chamar-se «escola».

Se podemos falar de uma «renascença portuguesa» é porque Portugal existe.

A identidade de uma pátria alicerça-se num conjunto de específicos, de traços culturais únicos, de um perfil étnico.

A poesia que assume ser a voz de uma nação é um clarim solitário.

Nem queremos saber dos vossos gozos e das vossas dores se não forem Portugal. Enviem para França os chiliques, o boudoir, as cartas perfumadas. Enviem a quem pertença tudo o que é verme neste chão.

Estes que se adiantam, que esporeiam as montadas e erguem o rosto impoluto diante do que ainda não é, chamamos-lhes poetas, vates, profetas, doidos, proscritos – o que quiserem. Por eles falam as pátrias, as eras que a História não guardou.

Do meu lado estão os bardos dos Lusitanos, mesmo que me digam que não existiram.

Toda a poesia, toda a palavra, o gesto sequer, o olhar, que não se erguer do sangue singular desta Pátria dos Portugueses Ibéricos – é lixo e aqui não pertence.

Os poetas são as antenas da raça.


Lord of Erewhon



«Artists are the antennae of the race but the bullet-headed many will never learn to trust their great artists.»

Ezra Pound


Domingo, 15 de Maio de 2011

THE BLACK LAMB BY LADY WILDE


Cliffs of Moher - County Clare, Vitor Vicente, 27 de Março de 2011


It is a custom amongst the people, when throwing away water at night, to cry out in a loud voice, "Take care of the water"; or literally, from the Irish, "Away with yourself from the water"--for they say that the spirits of the dead last buried are then wandering about, and it would be dangerous if the water fell on them.
One dark night a woman suddenly threw out a pail of boiling water without thinking of the warning words. Instantly a cry was heard, as of a person in pain, but no one was seen. However, the next night a black lamb entered the house, having the back all fresh scalded, and it lay down moaning by the hearth and died. Then they all knew that this was the spirit that had been scalded by the woman, and they carried the dead lamb out reverently, and buried it deep in the earth. Yet every night at the same hour it walked again into the house, and lay down, moaned, and died; and after this had happened many times, the priest was sent for, and finally, by the strength of his exorcism, the spirit of the dead was laid to rest; the black lamb appeared no more. Neither was the body of the dead lamb found in the grave when they searched for it, though it had been laid by their own hands deep in the earth, and covered with clay.


The Book of Fairy & Folk Tales of Ireland, Compiled by W.B. Yeats, Bounty Books, Londres, 2004

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