The woman who could not live with her faulty heart #7

Well I got a bad liver and broken heart, yeah,
I drunk me a river since you tore me apart
And I don't have a drinking problem, 'cept when I can't get a drink

Tom Waits

The woman who could not live with her faulty heart #6

«Um pássaro no lugar do coração», um verso de Rute Mota.

The woman who could not live with her faulty heart #5

Ou como quem diz: miles to go before I sleep.








..~.*.~..






Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.


Robert Frost
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

The woman who could not live with her faulty heart #4

Há dias em que dentro da minha cabeça só se ouve glu-glu-glu.

The woman who could not live with her faulty heart #3

(zoom in)      

Um dia tropecei na frase de Louise Bourgeois: "Rouge est la couleur du sang". O vermelho-vivo daquela imagem era tão forte, impressionou-me tanto, que nunca mais me abandonou. Por causa disso, tudo aquilo que penso é vermelho. Há, apesar de tudo, todo um universo de conotações implícitas na declaração de uma evidência tão literal.

The woman who could not live with her faulty heart #2

..~.*.~..

The woman who could not live with her faulty heart #1

..~.*.~..


(...) most hearts say, I want, I want,
I want, I want. My heart
is more duplicitious,
though no twin as I once thought.
It says, I want, I don’t want, I
want, and then a pause.

It forces me to listen,
and at night it is the infra-red
third eye that remains open
while the other two are sleeping
but refuses to say what it has seen.

It is a constant pestering
in my ears, a caught moth, limping drum,
a child’s fist beating
itself against the bedsprings:
I want, I don’t want.
How can one live with such a heart?
Long ago I gave up singing
to it, it will never be satisfied or lulled.
One night I will say to it:
Heart, be still,
and it will.


Margaret Atwood
Two-Headed Poems