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luís soares

Blog do escritor Luís Soares

Anne Carson - Sonnet of Addressing Oscar Wilde

         Who’s that man next to George? I don’t know but she’s kind of cute.
You don’t have to be Venus Xtravaganza nowadays to want to call your boyfriend
   “She”. It is mostly men who do this. Women wonder where it leaves them.
Those who find ugly meanings in beautiful things are corrupt without being
                                              charming. Oscar Wilde
                          to Lord Alfred Douglas (letter of July 1894):
I have no words for how I love you. This question of no words. No words that are legal.
                        No words that do the trick. No words with a shock

 

                                 all along the edge. How to get a shock.
                              Apply something cold to something hot.
                  Where to go for something cold. If it is winter, go outdoors.
        If it is gender, hesitate. All genders are hot, although the one you are in
                 will generally seem less hot than the one you are out.

From Possessive Used as Drink (Me), a lecture on pronouns in the form of 15 Sonnets by Anne Carson.

Patti Smith reads Oscar Wilde

Singer and artist Patti Smith reads from Oscar Wilde’s 100-page letter De Profundis, which he wrote during his two-year incarceration in Reading Prison.

For the first time this notorious prison has opened to the public where artists, writers, performers and ex-prisoners have been responding to the work of Wilde and the environment of the prison itself.

Exhibition curated by Artangel.

Next Week in London

Don’t miss national treasure and Poirot star David Suchet as the formidable Lady Bracknell in Oscar Wilde’s much loved masterpiece The Importance of Being Earnest, which is now open to rave reviews at the Vaudeville Theatre, London for a strictly limited season.

 

Two bachelor friends, the adorable dandy Algernon Moncrieff (Philip Cumbus – regular player at Shakespeare’s Globe) and the utterly reliable John Worthing J.P., (Downton Abbey’s Michael Benz) lead double lives to court the attentions of the exquisitely desirable Gwendolyn Fairfax (Emily Barber) and Cecily Cardew (Imogen Doel). The gallants must then grapple with the riotous consequences of their deceptions, and with the formidable Lady Bracknell.

Oscar Wilde - Flower of Love

Sweet, I blame you not, for mine the fault was, had I not been made of common clay
I had climbed the higher heights unclimbed yet, seen the fuller air, the larger day.

 

From the wildness of my wasted passion I had struck a better, clearer song,
Lit some lighter light of freer freedom, battled with some Hydra-headed wrong.

 

Had my lips been smitten into music by the kisses that but made them bleed,
You had walked with Bice and the angels on that verdant and enamelled meed.

 

I had trod the road which Dante treading saw the suns of seven circles shine,
Ay! perchance had seen the heavens opening, as they opened to the Florentine.

 

And the mighty nations would have crowned me, who am crownless now and withoutname,
And some orient dawn had found me kneeling on the threshold of the House of Fame.

 

I had sat within that marble circle where the oldest bard is as the young,
And the pipe is ever dropping honey, and the lyre's strings are ever strung.

 

Keats had lifted up his hymeneal curls from out the poppy-seeded wine,
With ambrosial mouth had kissed my forehead, clasped the hand of noble love in mine.

 

And at springtide, when the apple-blossoms brush the burnished bosom of the dove,
Two young lovers lying in an orchard would have read the story of our love;

 

Would have read the legend of my passion, known the bitter secret of my heart,
Kissed as we have kissed, but never parted as we two are fated now to part.

 

For the crimson flower of our life is eaten by the cankerworm of truth,
And no hand can gather up the fallen withered petals of the rose of youth.

 

Yet I am not sorry that I loved you -ah! what else had I a boy to do? -
For the hungry teeth of time devour, and the silent-footed years pursue.

 

Rudderless, we drift athwart a tempest, and when once the storm of youth is past,
Without lyre, without lute or chorus, Death the silent pilot comes at last.

 

And within the grave there is no pleasure, for the blindworm battens on the root,
And Desire shudders into ashes, and the tree of Passion bears no fruit.

 

Ah! what else had I to do but love you? God's own mother was less dear to me,
And less dear the Cytheraean rising like an argent lily from the sea.

 

I have made my choice, have lived my poems, and, though youth is gone in wasted days,
I have found the lover's crown of myrtle better than the poet's crown of bays.