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Fu*#?% up English, Part II

I swear I am not obsessed with these texts. The truth is that I had forgotten I had then in my pee sea (get it? If not, check post bellow) and they are so funny I couldn't resist to put them up here. Although this is not so funny as the firt one I posted.

This one I present you is from 1902. Yes, 1902.


OUR STRANGE LINGO

When the English tongue we speak.
Why is break not rhymed with freak?
Will you tell me why it's true
We say sew but likewise few?
And the maker of the verse,
Cannot rhyme his horse with worse?
Beard is not the same as heard
Cord is different from word.
Cow is cow but low is low
Shoe is never rhymed with foe.
Think of hose, dose,and lose

And think of goose and yet with choose
Think of comb, tomb and bomb,
Doll and roll or home and some.
Since pay is rhymed with say
Why not paid with said I pray?
Think of blood, food and good.
Mould is not pronounced like could.
Wherefore done, but gone and lone -
Is there any reason known?
To sum up all, it seems to me
Sound and letters don't agree.


Lord Cromer, Spectator, August 9th, 1902.

Fu*#?% up English

The title (of the post and text) says it all.


CANDIDATE FOR A PULLET SURPRISE

I have a spelling checker,
It came with my PC.
It plane lee marks four my revue
Miss steaks aye can knot sea.

Eye ran this poem threw it,
Your sure reel glad two no.
Its vary polished in it's weigh.
My checker tolled me sew.

A checker is a bless sing,
It freeze yew lodes of thyme.
It helps me right awl stiles two reed,
And aides me when eye rime.

Each frays come posed up on my screen
Eye trussed too bee a joule.
The checker pours o'er every word
To cheque sum spelling rule.

Bee fore a veiling checker's
Hour spelling mite decline,
And if we're lacks oar have a laps,
We wood bee maid too wine.

Butt now bee cause my spelling
Is checked with such grate flare,
Their are know fault's with in my cite,
Of nun eye am a wear.

Now spelling does knot phase me,
It does knot bring a tier.
My pay purrs awl due glad den
With wrapped word's fare as hear.

To rite with care is quite a feet
Of witch won should bee proud,
And wee mussed dew the best wee can,
Sew flaw's are knot aloud.

Sow ewe can sea why aye dew prays
Such soft wear four pea seas,
And why eye brake in two averse
Buy righting want too pleas.


Jerrold H. Zar.

O Corvo do Pessoa

Edgar Allan Poe nasceu à 200 anos. Escreveu um poeminha semi famoso sobre uma ave e um outro poeta português com nome de gente traduziu-o.

Numa meia-noite agreste, quando eu lia, lento e triste,
Vagos, curiosos tomos de ciências ancestrais,
E já quase adormecia, ouvi o que parecia
O som de algúem que batia levemente a meus umbrais.
"Uma visita", eu me disse, "está batendo a meus umbrais.
É só isto, e nada mais."

Ah, que bem disso me lembro! Era no frio dezembro,
E o fogo, morrendo negro, urdia sombras desiguais.
Como eu qu'ria a madrugada, toda a noite aos livros dada
P'ra esquecer (em vão!) a amada, hoje entre hostes celestiais -
Essa cujo nome sabem as hostes celestiais,
Mas sem nome aqui jamais!

Como, a tremer frio e frouxo, cada reposteiro roxo
Me incutia, urdia estranhos terrores nunca antes tais!
Mas, a mim mesmo infundido força, eu ia repetindo,
"É uma visita pedindo entrada aqui em meus umbrais;
Uma visita tardia pede entrada em meus umbrais.
É só isto, e nada mais".

E, mais forte num instante, já nem tardo ou hesitante,
"Senhor", eu disse, "ou senhora, decerto me desculpais;
Mas eu ia adormecendo, quando viestes batendo,
Tão levemente batendo, batendo por meus umbrais,
Que mal ouvi..." E abri largos, franqueando-os, meus umbrais.
Noite, noite e nada mais.

A treva enorme fitando, fiquei perdido receando,
Dúbio e tais sonhos sonhando que os ninguém sonhou iguais.
Mas a noite era infinita, a paz profunda e maldita,
E a única palavra dita foi um nome cheio de ais -
Eu o disse, o nome dela, e o eco disse aos meus ais.
Isso só e nada mais.

Para dentro então volvendo, toda a alma em mim ardendo,
Não tardou que ouvisse novo som batendo mais e mais.
"Por certo", disse eu, "aquela bulha é na minha janela.
Vamos ver o que está nela, e o que são estes sinais."
Meu coração se distraía pesquisando estes sinais.
"É o vento, e nada mais."


[etc, etc, etc] Tradução de Fernando Pessoa

e.e.cummings

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility


Complete Poems: 1904-1962 by e. e. cummings,
edited by George J. Firmage.

Reflexos comentados

Mais um poema da Ana Filipa Oliveira em comentário aos "Reflexos". Enjoy!

there are things i want to say.
i am beneath that water.
sulking.

the drops cover my senses.
i am guilty.
there are things i’ve done to you.
things that i hid beneath the water.

i am glad i’m here
because the water
covers our lips
with promises
of closure.

(© Ana Filipa Oliveira)

I, Too, Sing America, by Langston Hughes

I, too, sing America.

I am the darker brother.
They send me to eat in the kitchen
When company comes,
But I laugh,
And eat well,
And grow strong.

Tomorrow,
I'll be at the table
When company comes.
Nobody'll dare
Say to me,
"Eat in the kitchen,"
Then.

Besides,
They'll see how beautiful I am
And be ashamed--

I, too, am America.

(© Langston Hughes)

"no other lights"

Parece que a Ana está mesmo inspirada. Ontem escreveu outro poema sobre uma outra foto minha já antiga. Esta:

(© Sara Rodrigues Pereira- 18 Janeiro 2008)

O resultado foi este:

no other lights

there are no other lights besides mine.
everything else around me is but a silenced vapour.
everything i lost inside the fog.
what makes me weak shines with my shadow.

there is no-one else besides me.
there is no-one else to see me.
no-one else to tell me
that the light bulbs i see
are the bones of infinity.

and because there are no other lights besides mine
i am invisible to everything else that tries to touch me.


(© Ana Filipa Oliveira)

Inspiração inspirad(or)a?

Há já algum tempinho, coloquei aqui uma das minhas primeiras fotografias. Tinha recebido a máquina fotográfica há apenas uns diazinhos e resolvi sair para a Baixa e "brincar" com as funções. Mexer na luz, zoom, cores, etc.

O resultado foi uma foto às lanternas do Teatro S. Carlos, estas aqui em baixo:

(© Sara Rodrigues Pereira)

Hoje, uma amiga minha veio ao blog e sentiu-se inspirada pela fotografia (já lhe agradei imenso) e escreveu um poema. Este:

i wonder what we could do by the lanterns.
i wonder if lanterns can love.
do they?

i wonder if we could walk by the lanterns.
i wonder if we can love.
i wonder if the light could turn our flesh into ghosts.

can we go stare at the lanterns?
just stay with them and stare.
could we turn them into people?
empty people like us.


(© Ana Filipa Oliveira)

Obrigada, Ana

Fica aqui uma fotografia parecida, mas esta já de noite.

(© Sara Rodrigues Pereira - 26 Fevereiro 2008)

Secret Masklike Smile

© Sara Rodrigues Pereira

The Mirror

I look in the mirror
And what do I see?
A strange-looking person
That cannon be me.

For I am much younger
And not nearly so fat
As that face in the mirror
I am looking at.

Oh, where are the mirrors
That I used to know
Like the ones which were made
Thirty years ago?

Now all things have changed
And I’m sure you’ll agree
Mirrors are not as good
As they used to be.

So never be concerned
If the wrinkles appear
For one thing I’ve learned
Which is very clear:

Should your complexion
Be less than perfection,
It is really the mirror
That needs correction.

Anonymous