UNITED COLOURS OF POETRY – Painful inventions grow, while the syllables grow, mute as the flight of birds, in the feelings

PRETEND – F. Pessoa: The poet is a pretender. Pretends so completely, that gets to pretend it is pain, the pain that he really feels. SOMEWHERE – J. Skacel: Poets do not invent poetry. The poem is somewhere back there. It is there from time immemorial. The poet does not do that discover it. INTIMATE UNDERSTANDING – P. Neruda: If you ask me what is my poetry, I must confess that I do not know. But if you ask my poetry who I am, you will understand. CLOUDS AND HEDGES – S. Quasimodo: You laugh that I for the syllables me skinny, and heaven and curved necks, blue hedge around me, and rustling of elms, and rumors of water trembling, I deception youth with clouds and colors that the light sinks. LUMP OF DREAMS – G. Ungaretti: I am a poet, a unanimous cry, have a lump of dreams. TO BE – A. McLeish: A poem should be silent, as the flight of birds. A poem should be motionless like time, like the moon rising. A poem should not mean but be. REAL BIRTH – A. Pushkin: Not for the agitations of life, not from desire and battles. We were born for inspiration, to the sweet sounds and prayers. FLIGHT OF CRANES – A. Breton: It would take words like levers, those words escaped the ancient songs, ranging in step superb cranes. INSIDE THE FEELINGS – M. Mincu: The real is lurking on the edge of poetry. The death grows thick, inside feelings. STRANGE DISEASE – Li Po: On Mount Fan Kuo, on top of the peak, I met Tu Fu. On the head off the hat, in the sunny afternoon. I said, since we last met six emaciated. How long you are sick of poetry?