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Olá Visitante10.abr.2020, 11:00:22

Autor Tópico: Antologia de Poesia Homossexual Portuguesa  (Lida 5533 vezes)

 
Antologia de Poesia Homossexual Portuguesa
#0

Offline rubenjose

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Iniciei no meu blog [historiasveridicas.blogspot.com] uma "Antologia de Poesia Homossexual Portuguesa". Uma vez que não há vontade política de fazer uma (à semelhança do que já aconteceu em Espanha). Gostaria de ter a colaboração de todos, através do envio de poemas com conteúdo homoerótico e/ou de poetas homossexuais, que versem sobre o amor. Quiçá aqui começe um movimento para que a dita antologia seja publicada... [Claro que quando não há vontade por parte das editoras, até os direitos de autor atrapalham... mas, julgo que vale a pena tentar!]

    Antologia de Poesia Homossexual Portuguesa
    #1

    Offline Wolf

    • *****
    • Membro Ultra
    • Género: Masculino
    • Lucky
     ::)

    *wolf pisca os olhinhos*

    eu tenho um Blog...

    *wolf volta a piscar os olhinhos*

    querem maior poeta que eu?!
     lol

     :P
      "Agora tens o coração nas mãos.
      Agora podes morder-lhe, ficar com o meu sangue e matar-me devagar.
      Agora, se quiseres."

      Antologia de Poesia Homossexual Portuguesa
      #2

      Offline epilepsy

      • ****
      • Membro Sénior
      • Género: Masculino
      Por acaso acho que não conheço poemas  de poetas homossexuais ou com conteúdos homoeróticos portugueses (Sem ser o Wolf lol :D).
      Se souber de alguma coisa aviso  ;D

        Antologia de Poesia Homossexual Portuguesa
        #3

        Tiago

        • Visitante
        Iniciei no meu blog [historiasveridicas.blogspot.com] uma "Antologia de Poesia Homossexual Portuguesa". Uma vez que não há vontade política de fazer uma (à semelhança do que já aconteceu em Espanha). Gostaria de ter a colaboração de todos, através do envio de poemas com conteúdo homoerótico e/ou de poetas homossexuais, que versem sobre o amor. Quiçá aqui começe um movimento para que a dita antologia seja publicada... [Claro que quando não há vontade por parte das editoras, até os direitos de autor atrapalham... mas, julgo que vale a pena tentar!]

        Os poemas que pedes podem ser de autoria própria?

          Antologia de Poesia Homossexual Portuguesa
          #4

          Offline c

          • *****
          • Membro Ultra
          • Género: Feminino
          • "Imitem as árvores dos caminhos" J. Gomes Ferreira
          a opusgay e a korpus editaram a 1ª Antologia de Literatura Homoerótica...  ::)

          e vocês perdoem-me a exasperação, mas dizer que não se conhece poetas homossexuais é a mesma coisa que dizer que não se percebe puto da poesia que tem sido feita nos últimos 100 anos neste país...
          e dizer que não há vontade política para editar uma antologia homossexual é ainda uma mais exasperante confusão.

          pronto, desculpem, ando com mau feitio, não me levem a mal.  :-*

          (c.)
            "No entanto és tu que te moverás na matéria/ da minha boca, e serás uma árvore dormindo e acordando onde existe o meu sangue" - Herberto Helder

            Antologia de Poesia Homossexual Portuguesa
            #5

            Kiko20

            • Visitante
            Fernando Pessoa
            (1888-1935)
             
             Antinous (excerto)

            The rain outside was cold in Hadrian's soul.

            The boy lay dead
            On the low couch, on whose denuded whole,
            To Hadrian's eyes, whose sorrow was a dread,
            The shadowy light of Death's eclipse was shed.

            The boy lay dead, and the day seemed a night
            Outside. The rain fell like a sick affright
            Of Nature at her work in killing him.
            Memory of what he was gave no delight,
            Delight at what he was was dead and dim.

            O hands that once had clasped Hadrian's warm hands,
            Whose cold now found them cold!
            O hair bound erstwhile with the pressing bands!
            O eyes half-diffidently bold!
            O bare female male-body such
            As a god's likeness to humanity!
            O lips whose opening redness erst could touch
            Lust's seats with a live art's variety!
            O fingers skilled in things not to be told!
            O tongue which, counter-tongued, made the blood bold!
            O complete regency of lust throned on
            Raged consciousness's spilled suspension!

            These things are things that now must be no more.
            The rain is silent, and the Emperor
            Sinks by the couch. His grief is like a rage,
            For the gods take away the life they give
            And spoil the beauty they made live.
            He weeps and knows that every future age
            Is looking on him out of the to-be;
            His love is on a universal stage;
            A thousand unborn eyes weep with his misery.

            Antinous is dead, is dead for ever,
            Is dead for ever and all loves lament.
            Venus herself, that was Adonis' lover,
            Seeing him, that newly lived, now dead again,
            Lends her old grief's renewal to be blent
            With Hadrian's pain.

            Now is Apollo sad because the stealer
            Of his white body is for ever cold.
            No careful kisses on that nippled point
            Covering his heart-beats' silent place restore
            His life again to ope his eyes and feel her
            Presence along his veins Love's fortress hold.
            No warmth of his another's warmth demands.
            Now will his hands behind his head no more
            Linked, in that posture giving all but hands,
            On the projected body hands implore.

            The rain falls, and he lies like one who hath
            Forgotten all the gestures of his love
            And lies awake waiting their hot return.
            But all his arts and toys are now with Death.
            This human ice no way of heat can move;
            These ashes of a fire no flame can burn.

            O Hadrian, what will now thy cold life be?
            What boots it to be lord of men and might?
            His absence o'er thy visible empery
            Comes like a night,
            Nor is there morn in hopes of new delight.
            Now are thy nights widowed of love and kisses;
            Now are thy days robbed of the night's awaiting;
            Now have thy lips no purpose for thy blisses,
            Left but to speak the name that Death is mating
            With solitude and sorrow and affright.

            Thy vague hands grope, as if they had dropped joy.
            To hear that the rain ceases lift thy head,
            And thy raised glance take to the lovely boy.
            Naked he lies upon that memoried bed;
            By thine own hand he lies uncoverèd.
            There was he wont thy dangling sense to cloy,
            And uncloy with more cloying, and annoy
            With newer uncloying till thy senses bled.

            His hand and mouth knew games to reinstall
            Desire that thy worn spine was hurt to follow.
            Sometimes it seemed to thee that all was hollow
            In sense in each new straining of sucked lust.
            Then still new turns of toying would he call
            To thy nerves' flesh, and thou wouldst tremble and fall
            Back on thy cushions with thy mind's sense hushed.

            »Beautiful was my love, yet melancholy.
            He had that art, that makes love captive wholly,
            Of being slowly sad among lust's rages.
            Now the Nile gave him up, the eternal Nile.
            Under his wet locks Death's blue paleness wages
            Now war upon our wishing with sad smile.«

            Even as he thinks, the lust that is no more
            Than a memory of lust revives and takes
            His senses by the hand, his felt flesh wakes,
            And all becomes again what 'twas before.
            The dead body on the bed starts up and lives
            And comes to lie with him, close, closer, and
            A creeping love-wise and invisible hand
            At every body-entrance to his lust
            Whispers caresses which flit off yet just
            Remain enough to bleed his last nerve's strand,
            O sweet and cruel Parthian fugitives!

            So he half rises, looking on his lover,
            That now can love nothing but what none know.
            Vaguely, half-seeing what he doth behold,
            He runs his cold lips all the body over.
            And so ice-senseless are his lips that, lo!,
            He scarce tastes death from the dead body's cold,
            But it seems both are dead or living both
            And love is still the presence and the mover.
            Then his lips cease on the other lips' cold sloth.

            Ah, there the wanting breath reminds his lips
            That from beyond the gods hath moved a mist
            Between him and this boy. His finger-tips,
            Still idly searching o'er the body, list
            For some flesh-response to their waking mood.
            But their love-question is not understood:
            The god is dead whose cult was to be kissed!

            He lifts his hand up to where heaven should be
            And cries on the mute gods to know bis pain.
            Let your calm faces turn aside to his plea,
            O granting powers! He will yield up his reign.
            In the still deserts he will parchèd live,
            In the far barbarous roads beggar or slave,
            But to his arms again the warm boy give!
            Forego that space ye meant to be his grave!

            Take all the female loveliness of earth
            And in one mound of death its remnant spill!
            But, by sweet Ganymede, that Jove found worth
            And above Hebe did elect to fill
            His cup at his high feasting, and instil
            The friendlier love that fills the other's dearth,
            The clod of female embraces resolve
            To dust, o father of the gods, but spare
            This boy and his white body and golden hair!
            Maybe thy better Ganymede thou feel'st
            That he should be, and out of jealous care
            From Hadrian's arms to thine his beauty steal'st.

            He was a kitten playing with lust, playing
            With his own and with Hadrian's, sometimes one
            And sometimes two, now linking, now undone;
            Now leaving lust, now lust's high lusts delaying;
            Now eying lust not wide, but from askance
            Jumping round on lust's half-unexpectance;
            Now softly gripping, then with fury holding,
            Now playfully playing, now seriously, now lying
            By th' side of lust looking at it, now spying
            Which way to take lust in his lust's withholding.

            Thus did the hours slide from their tangled hands
            And from their mixèd limbs the moments slip.
            Now were his arms dead leaves, now iron bands;
            Now were his lips cups, now the things that sip;
            Now were his eyes too closed and now too looking;
            Now were his uncontinuings frenzy working;
            Now were his arts a feather and now a whip.

            That love they lived as a religion
            Offered to gods that come themselves to men.
            Sometimes he was adorned or made to don
            Half-vestures, then in statued nudity
            Did imitate some god that seems to be
            By marble's accurate virtue men's again.
            Now was he Venus, white out of the seas;
            And now was he Apollo, young and golden;
            Now as Jove sate he in mock judgement over
            The presence at his feet of his slaved lover;
            Now was he an acted rite, by one beholden,
            In ever-repositioned mysteries.

            Now he is something anyone can be.
            O stark negation of the thing it is!
            O golden-haired moon-cold loveliness!
            Too cold! too cold! and love as cold as he!
            Love through the memories of his love doth roam
            As through a labyrinth, in sad madness glad,
            And now calls on his name and bids him come,
            And now is smiling at his imaged coming
            That is i'th' heart like faces in the gloaming -
            Mere shining shadows of the forms they had.

            The rain again like a vague pain arose
            And put the sense of wetness in the air.
            Suddenly did the Emperor suppose
            He saw this room and all in it from far.
            He saw the couch, the boy, and his own frame
            Cast down against the couch, and he became
            A clearer presence to himself, and said
            These words unuttered, save to his soul's dread:

            »I shall build thee a statue that will be
            To the continued future evidence
            Of my love and thy beauty and the sense
            That beauty giveth of divinity.
            Though death with subtle uncovering hands remove
            The apparel of life and empire from our love,
            Yet its nude statue, that thou dost inspirit,
            All future times, whether they will't or not,
            Shall, like a gift a forcing god hath brought,
            Inevitably inherit.

            »Ay, this thy statue shall I build, and set
            Upon the pinnacle of being thine, that Time
            By its subtle dim crime
            Will fear to eat it from life, or to fret
            With war's or envy's rage from bulk and stone.
            Fate cannot be that! Gods themselves, that make
            Things change, Fate's own hand, that doth overtake
            The gods themselves with darkness, will draw back
            From marring thus thy statue and my boon,
            Leaving the wide world hollow with thy lack.

            »This picture of our love will bridge the ages.
            It will loom white out of the past and be
            Eternal, like a Roman victory,
            In every heart the future will give rages
            Of not being our love's contemporary.

            »Yet oh that this were needed not, and thou
            Wert the red flower perfuming my life,
            The garland on the brows of my delight,
            The living flame on altars of my soul!
            Would all this were a thing thou mightest now
            Smile at from under thy death-mocking lids
            And wonder that I should so put a strife
            Twixt me and gods for thy lost presence bright;
            Were there nought in this but my empty dole
            And thy awakening smile half to condole
            With what my dreaming pain to hope forbids.«


              Antologia de Poesia Homossexual Portuguesa
              #6

              Offline eddiessc

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              Eu escrevo poemas, como gay alguns deles focam-se nessa questão e nos meus relacionamentos.
              Caso esteja interessado em dar uma vista de olhos:

              www.facebook.com/poemasepoetasdarua

              edgar s
              Idealizador da página Poemas e Poetas da rua

                 

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