quinta-feira, 24 de fevereiro de 2011

A poem about the relevance of Quantum Physics to contemporaries relationships

There is a tiny and delicate limit
dictated by the constant of Planck
when Nature gets so completely lost
that breaks down and comes to a blank,

and a total ignorance makes it dumb
and  speechless: wave or particle?
It can’t  send any reasonable message
to cover the nakedness of this crackle.   

The same about us and even worse,
cause there is no Copenhagen Interpretation
that could help us to answer
that stubborn and awesome question

we keep asking ourselves irrevocably:
Do we love each other, or do we not?
Even the stars above us couldn’t unbind
the blindness of this merciless knot. 

So what shall we do? Maybe we must,
like this unconscious universe itself,
go ahead, evolving and expanding ourselves,
until there is none of me, of you, or anything else.

by Guilherme Preger

domingo, 20 de fevereiro de 2011

A poem about a little kind of a Joker called Love

Confronting solitude
can be not so hard
if only you consider
love not a missing card.

Maybe the one you have just
forgotten on your sleeve:
you could have used it
but you prefered not to believe

you still had the chance.
But not for the risk you couldn’t tame,
as, like Amy Winehouse’s
Love is a losing game,

you knew you’d miss it anyway.
No! Love is completely available
for an undetermined move
anyone anytime can handle.

So in a mess of a solitude
imagine yourself a little gambler,
you  can’t have ever full hands
but remains this kind of a Joker

you must remember to put at stake
in a play no one couldn’t refrain
not because there is nothing to lose
but hard a necessity to gain.

by Guilherme Preger

domingo, 6 de fevereiro de 2011

A Poem about a Friday night doing less than nothing while waiting for a telephone call

it´s so clear
that i need a rest
even though to stir
would be the best.

oh only a possible rest,
a moment not to think,
so even a little remembrance
would make me shrink.

how could i distend
alongside a fresh bed
and wash all this stuff
that shits my head,

so that i could start something
again from a immaculate blank?
A bed with a mattress like a placid lagoon
i could plunge and slumber where Hope sank.