quinta-feira, 30 de dezembro de 2010
domingo, 26 de dezembro de 2010
DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI
I have been here before,
But when or how I cannot tell:
I know the grass beyond the door,
The sweet keen smell,
The sighing sound, the lights around the shore.
You have been mine before,—
How long ago I may not know:
But just when at that swallow's soar
Your neck turn'd so,
Some veil did fall,—I knew it all of yore.
Has this been thus before?
And shall not thus time's eddying flight
Still with our lives our love restore
In death's despite,
And day and night yield one delight once more?
quinta-feira, 23 de dezembro de 2010
The Anxiety of Coincidence
Your object will have made a good subject
and I should get to tell you so: the bird
with a beak but no mouth, we hear him only
when it's night in the Dominican Republic
and Israel at the same time. Someone will
find your marginalia useful, so try to spare
some ink. I took dictation only from you,
for whom verbs were nothing and tense
everything. See the difference, you kept asking,
but it wasn't a question. See how enormous—
camel hauling an empty wheelchair, conspiracy
of hangman men, dried-out song that makes
it snow. You realize we could have walked
home in the hours taking inventory took, jack
of no traits. Bird with no wings.
quarta-feira, 22 de dezembro de 2010
terça-feira, 21 de dezembro de 2010
Study for Salome Dancing Before Herod
In the movement toward disappearance,
She is pulled by an undertow of ecstasy.
She wakes in a room where she never fell asleep.
A thousand starlings leaf-out a bare tree.
She wakes in a dusky, tenebrous zone.
Evening on the ridges and in the mountains,
But light still spills on the valley floor.
What transport brought her here?
The shape of gravity embodies a pear on the table.
Here time is the only sovereign.
She is like an arrow slipped from its quiver.
domingo, 19 de dezembro de 2010
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark, and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
quarta-feira, 15 de dezembro de 2010
The night you were conceived
we balanced underneath a tent,
amazed at the air-marveler,
who, hand-over-hand, seized the stars,
then braved the line to carry home
a big-top souvenir umbrella.
Earth-bound a year, you dare
gravity, sliding from the couch
to table. Mornings, on tiptoe,
stretching fingers, you grab
Saturn, Venus and the moons
raining down from the sky of ceiling.
segunda-feira, 13 de dezembro de 2010
domingo, 12 de dezembro de 2010
quinta-feira, 9 de dezembro de 2010
terça-feira, 7 de dezembro de 2010
Solar system bedsheets
There, behind sunlight,
domingo, 5 de dezembro de 2010
The times are nightfall, look, their light grows less
The times are nightfall, look, their light grows less;
quarta-feira, 1 de dezembro de 2010
even if you beckon them.
They loom like demons
you tug by the tail to examine from up close
and then let fly away.
Their colors at once brighter and less bright
than you remembered, they
hover and insinuate all day
at the corner of your eye.
terça-feira, 30 de novembro de 2010
só espero que o que te leve
seja o vento
e não a tempestade
que assola o meu coração
que já não sente
a passagem do dia para a noite
já que todos os ruídos se calaram
com a solenidade do momento
e as sobrancelhas se fecharam
à luz que a perspectiva de um novo dia que poderá existir
sintamos então esta mágoa de português
e preparemo-nos para o velório
agora que novamente se torna claro
a inaptidão de quem está de partida
sentir que fazes falta
e ouvir mil explosões no ar
e nada faz o tempo parar
o tiquetaque das pessoas que agora se preparam
para se despedir
que de nada vale um sorriso fechado
um abraço sentido
uma palavra ao ouvido
de nada vale querer sentir
o que não pode ser sentido
segunda-feira, 29 de novembro de 2010
who would believe them winged
who would believe they could be
beautiful who would believe
they could fall so in love with mortals
that they would attach themselves
as scars attach and ride the skin
sometimes we hear them in our dreams
rattling their skulls clicking
their bony fingers
they have heard me beseeching
as i whispered into my own
cupped hands enough not me again
but who can distinguish
one human voice
amid such choruses
domingo, 28 de novembro de 2010
He who binds to himself a joy
Does the winged life destroy
He who kisses the joy as it flies
Lives in eternity's sunrise
sexta-feira, 26 de novembro de 2010
A Note on Absence
The story over having wished it otherwise
The water surface/friendship
The drunk euphoric
Good Friday music
Not in this lifetime
A fig tree grows
No miserable deed will do
Space and time, dimensions that just bring more of this
For anyone who has a nose
A king sat in a box
8 p.m. Friday
rain defeating snow
a space too narrow to pass through
terça-feira, 23 de novembro de 2010
Um dia vou fazer-me passar por um Deus anónimo
e tocar nas mãos virgens dos dissidentes
e mentir-lhes ao ouvido,
sussurrando imagens de sangue e de anarquia
Nas minhas parcas vestes
enterrarei um punhal de arrependimento
em vez de um mandato de paz
e bastará uma palavra
de incentivo à violência
para que se dê a guerra santa
De pés descalços a arder no fogo da terra
espalharei impunidades e crenças invisíveis
e deixarei que outros ardam na fogueira
tão-somente por suspeição
Não revelarei o meu preconceito de género
nem o meu conceito de igualdade
para não ferir susceptibilidades
mas rezarei por todos como se fossem iguais
sofrerão todos a mesma dor
sonharão todos com o mesmo apocalipse
Darei uma dentada na maçã da vida
e tentarei padecer do mesmo mal que os cristãos
não ordenarei divisões, apenas segregações
comandadas pelo poder
Far-se-á justiça com as próprias mãos
com a minha permissão
e o futuro será risonho
para os pecadores
e severo para os combatentes
Deixo para trás um livro
cheio de palavras verdadeiras
que serão o espelho de uma sociedade
à minha imagem e semelhança
E no final dos tempos
vão todos passar ao largo da minha memória
e tudo isto parecerá
um mero acto de auto-flagelação.
sábado, 20 de novembro de 2010
Our door was shut to the noon-day heat.
We could not see him.
We might not have heard him either—
Resting, dozing, dreaming pleasantly.
But his step was tremendous—
Are mountains on the march?
He was no man who passed;
But a great faithful horse
Dragging a load
Up the hill.
sexta-feira, 19 de novembro de 2010
from One Time
2. 2047 Grace Street
But the world is more often refuge
than evidence, comfort and covert
for the flinching will, rather than the sharp
particulate instants through which God's being burns
into ours. I say God and mean more
than the bright abyss that opens in that word.
I say world and mean less
than the abstract oblivion of atoms
out of which every intact thing emerges,
into which every intact thing finally goes.
I do not know how to come closer to God
except by standing where a world is ending
for one man. It is still dark,
and for an hour I have listened
to the breathing of the woman I love beyond
my ability to love. Praise to the pain
scalding us toward each other, the grief
beyond which, please God, she will live
and thrive. And praise to the light that is not
yet, the dawn in which one bird believes,
crying not as if there had been no night
but as if there were no night in which it had not been.
terça-feira, 16 de novembro de 2010
(From a talk I had lately with a German spiritualist)
Nothing is ever really lost, or can be lost,
No birth, identity, form—no object of the world.
Nor life, nor force, nor any visible thing;
Appearance must not foil, nor shifted sphere confuse thy brain.
Ample are time and space—ample the fields of Nature.
The body, sluggish, aged, cold—the embers left from earlier fires,
The light in the eye grown dim, shall duly flame again;
The sun now low in the west rises for mornings and for noons continual;
To frozen clods ever the spring's invisible law returns,
With grass and flowers and summer fruits and corn.
segunda-feira, 15 de novembro de 2010
sexta-feira, 12 de novembro de 2010
She sends me a text
she's coming home
the train emerges
I light the fire under
the pot, I pour her
a glass of wine
I fold a napkin under
a little fork
the wind blows the rain
into the windows
the emperor himself
is not this happy
terça-feira, 9 de novembro de 2010
Dark matter, are you
for lack of knowing
better? The room
you've spun is distant
a flickering lapsarian,
you satisfy no mute
collapse, spiral, winded
by unwinding. Dear
enigma kid, dear psychic
soft spot, I write you
from under eight spastic
lights, each falser than stars,
to promise I'll will
the darkness out of you
or I'll will myself
to trying. Twisted
mister, my incipient
sir, you be in charge
of the what-if, I'll master why.
segunda-feira, 8 de novembro de 2010
By Only when we are in each other's arms
Babies or lovers or the very ill
Are we content not to reach over the side;
To lie still.
To stay in the time we've settled in, that we've
Like a gourd of its meat,
And not, like a sampling fly, as soon as landed
Start to our feet,
Pulling one box on another, Ossa on Pelion;
Getting the moment, only to strain away
And look each day for what each next day brings us:
Yet another day;
Pleased with the infant's health and the strength of
For the child it will grow to,
The house perfected, ready and swept, for the new
Abode we go to,
The town in order and settled down for the night
The sooner for the next day to be over,
The affair pushed straight away to its limit, to leave
and notch up
Lie still, then, babies or lovers or the frail old who
In dreams we carry
Seeking a place of rest beyond the crowds
That claim and harry.
We are trying to reach that island for the festive
Where our love will stay –
Waylaid, prevented, we wake as that vivid country
Mists into day.
Stay on this side of the hill.
Sleep in my arms a bit longer.
This driving on will take you over the top
Beyond recall the sooner.
sexta-feira, 5 de novembro de 2010
It's a gift, this cloudless November morning
warm enough for you to walk without a jacket
along your favorite path. The rhythmic shushing
of your feet through fallen leaves should be
enough to quiet the mind, so it surprises you
when you catch yourself telling off your boss
for a decade of accumulated injustices,
all the things you've never said circling inside you.
It's the rising wind that pulls you out of it,
and you look up to see a cloud of leaves
swirling in sunlight, flickering against the blue
and rising above the treetops, as if the whole day
were sighing, Let it go, let it go,
for this moment at least, let it all go.
quinta-feira, 4 de novembro de 2010
Moonscape of snow at night.
To die, to crash,
could be a crush of snow.
I imagine, driving alone,
being enveloped by snow, crashed into, quickly.
The mice must have these visions.
Talking quietly when they can’t sleep
about tunneling in endless grain until, full of it,
completely enveloped by it, peacefully, it takes them.
Then Two Three
Content Is Another
I Go Home
Slumber Once Again
I Almost Forgot
No One Waits
Sucks Me Dry
Against the Wind
Trust No One
quarta-feira, 3 de novembro de 2010
The City Limits
When you consider the radiance, that it does not withhold
itself but pours its abundance without selection into every
nook and cranny not overhung or hidden; when you consider
that birds' bones make no awful noise against the light but
lie low in the light as in a high testimony; when you consider
the radiance, that it will look into the guiltiest
swervings of the weaving heart and bear itself upon them,
not flinching into disguise or darkening; when you consider
the abundance of such resource as illuminates the glow-blue
bodies and gold-skeined wings of flies swarming the dumped
guts of a natural slaughter or the coil of shit and in no
way winces from its storms of generosity; when you consider
that air or vacuum, snow or shale, squid or wolf, rose or lichen,
each is accepted into as much light as it will take, then
the heart moves roomier, the man stands and looks about, the
leaf does not increase itself above the grass, and the dark
work of the deepest cells is of a tune with May bushes
and fear lit by the breadth of such calmly turns to praise.
terça-feira, 2 de novembro de 2010
We have flowed out of ourselves
Beginning on the outside
That shrivable skin
Where you leave off
Of infinite elastic
Walking the ceiling
Our eyelashes polish stars
Curled close in the youngest corpuscle
Of a descendant
We spit up our passions in our grand-dams
Fixing the extension of your reactions
Our shadow lengthens
In your fear
You are so old
Born in our immortality
Stuck fast as Life
In one impalpable
We are turned inside out
Your cities lie digesting in our stomachs
Street lights footle in our ocular darkness
Having swallowed your irate hungers
Satisfied before bread-breaking
To your dissolution
We splinter into Wholes
Stirring the remorses of your tomorrow
Among the refuse of your unborn centuries
In our busy ashbins
Stink the melodies
So easily reducible
Our tissue is of that which escapes you
Birth-Breaths and orgasms
The shattering tremor of the static
The far-shore of an instant
The unsurpassable openness of the circle
Legerdemain of God
Only in the segregated angles of Lunatic Asylums
Do those who have strained to exceeding themselves
Break on our edgeless contours
The mouthed echoes of what
has exuded to our companionship
Is horrible to the ear
Of the half that is left inside them.
sábado, 30 de outubro de 2010
The Dead Girls Speak in Unison
Do not pretend that you don't like it
when we threaten you.
We see you getting pheromone stink
under the collar, moaning, baldly.
Motionless, picturing decay.
When we creak your step,
when we crack your glass,
when we tap tap tap,
that is a bone
that is all we have
though we are very shiny,
and filled with beetles.
We are made entirely of bone.
Like an idol.
Like the tusk of some wonderful past.
When you cleave to us,
your skin will fuse,
hot calcium meth,
and in the myth,
you will be named for us.
quinta-feira, 28 de outubro de 2010
One is never alone. Saltwater taffy colored
beach blanket spread on a dirt outcropping
pocked with movement. Pell-mell tunneling,
black specks the specter of beard hairs swarm,
disappear, emerge, twitch, reverse course
to forage along my shin, painting pathways
with invisible pheromones that others take
up in ceaseless streams. Ordered disarray,
wingless expansionists form a colony mind,
no sense of self outside the nest, expending
summer to prepare for winter, droning on
through midday heat. I watch, repose, alone.
don’t get near me
you might damage me
and once the damage is done
we can never go back
these dark waters
where you found me by myself
eating away at time
allow me to float
and I came back here
it always makes me realise
is being part of a bigger lie
that it is nothing but a haze
similar to the ones you feel
when someone is trying to fix you
instead of embracing you with hope
you will not find me here again
you will not be able to open me with a key anymore
watch me as I dive again
far away from you
quarta-feira, 27 de outubro de 2010
terça-feira, 26 de outubro de 2010
how much more cruel can you be
how much more insane
in the one-dimensional brain
that exhales nothing but rage
for your humankind
while you hang on to everything you possess
even though it’s only a fallible monetary value
your life chews away at you
as if toying with the hypothesis of an afterlife
and the psychosis that’s been your home
the place where you belong
will never wither
as long as you keep staying faithful to your death wish
never mind the self-destruction appeal
whatever you might feel
or whomever you might call
will not be trustworthy enough
to make you comfortable in your own skin
all your thoughts are barred
now that you find yourself
with no reproach
more alone than you have ever been
and more prone to error than everybody else
but you are no accuser
your end is not taking place
you place your hand on your face
you are now a believer
that the truth will come
buried in someone else’s dream
just a word away
Introduction to the World
For the time being
call me Home.
All the ingénues do.
Units are the engines
I understand best.
One betrayal, two.
Merrily, merrily, merrily.
Define hope. Machine.
Define machine. Nope.
the geniuses race through.
If you're lucky
after a number of
feel something catch.
domingo, 24 de outubro de 2010
When I was dead, my spirit turned
To seek the much-frequented house:
I passed the door, and saw my friends
Feasting beneath green orange boughs;
From hand to hand they pushed the wine,
They sucked the pulp of plum and peach;
They sang, they jested, and they laughed,
For each was loved of each.
I listened to their honest chat:
Said one: 'To-morrow we shall be
Plod plod along the featureless sands
And coasting miles and miles of sea.'
Said one: 'Before the turn of tide
We will achieve the eyrie-seat.'
Said one: 'To-morrow shall be like
To-day, but much more sweet.'
'To-morrow,' said they, strong with hope,
And dwelt upon the pleasant way:
'To-morrow,' cried they one and all,
While no one spoke of yesterday.
Their life stood full at blessed noon;
I, only I, had passed away:
'To-morrow and to-day,' they cried;
I was of yesterday.
I shivered comfortless, but cast
No chill across the tablecloth;
I all-forgotten shivered, sad
To stay and yet to part how loth:
I passed from the familiar room,
I who from love had passed away,
Like the remembrance of a guest
That tarrieth but a day.
sábado, 23 de outubro de 2010
Nem rei nem lei, nem paz nem guerra,
Define com perfil e ser
Este fulgor baço da terra
Que é Portugal a entristecer--
Brilho sem luz e sem arder,
Como o que o fogofátuo encerra.
Ninguém sabe que coisa quere.
Ninguém conhece que alma tem,
Nem o que é mal nem o que é bem.
(Que ânsia distante perto chora?)
Tudo é incerto e derradeiro.
Tudo é disperso, nada é inteiro.
Ó Portugal, hoje és nevoeiro...
É a Hora!
sexta-feira, 22 de outubro de 2010
quarta-feira, 20 de outubro de 2010
You sleep with a dream of summer weather,
wake to the thrum of rain—roped down by rain.
Nothing out there but drop-heavy feathers of grass
and rainy air. The plastic table on the terrace
has shed three legs on its way to the garden fence.
The mountains have had the sense to disappear.
It's the Celtic temperament—wind, then torrents, then remorse.
Glory rising like a curtain over distant water.
Old stonehouse, having steered us through the dark,
docks in a pool of shadow all its own.
That widening crack in the gloom is like good luck.
Luck, which neither you nor tomorrow can depend on.
domingo, 17 de outubro de 2010
entre o frio
e as dúvidas que carregamos
as pétalas que dividimos
constrangidos um pelo outro
vão acabar desfeitas
de pessoas que não podemos ser
pessoas que nunca vamos ser
enquanto o sentimento de culpa
não nos traz chagas
que não queremos invocar
vamos esperar mais um dia
pode ser que venha a claridade
e nos faça deixar de temer
o que abandonámos há muito tempo
as pequenas mortes diárias
o delírio constante
que nos faz achar que estamos unidos
por um qualquer sentimento
que nos devolve a sensação
de estarmos no útero
a ser protegidos
por uma invisibilidade
controlada pelos bocejos do silêncio
cai neve no cérebro vivo do imaculado - dizem
que este milagres só são possíveis com rosas e
enganos - precisamente no segundo em que a insónia
transmuda os metais diurnos em estrume do coração
que um duende dança na erecção do enforcado - o fulgor
dos sémenes venenosos alastra no brilho dos olhos e
um sussurro de tinta preta aflora os lábios
fere a mão de gelo que se aproxima da boca
o vómito da luz ergue-se
das palavras ditas em surdina
a seguir vem o sono
e o miraculado entra no voo dos cisnes
o dia cansa-se
na brutalidade com que a voz se atira contra as paredes
em toda a extensão das veias e dos tendões
quando desperta com o crepúsculo
o miraculado olha-nos fixamente e sorri
dá-nos uma rosa em forma de estilete - fechamos os olhos
sabendo que este é o maior engano
sábado, 16 de outubro de 2010
The Coming of Light
Even this late it happens:
the coming of love, the coming of light.
You wake and the candles are lit as if by themselves,
stars gather, dreams pour into your pillows,
sending up warm bouquets of air.
Even this late the bones of the body shine
and tomorrow's dust flares into breath.
quinta-feira, 14 de outubro de 2010
esta é apenas mais uma preocupação nocturna
como todas as outras
que nos acompanham
quando estamos a adoecer
quando esta voz
no peito adormecido
e faz diminuir a intensidade
do coração que está de fora
ela é mais do que uma palavra espelhada noutra
é mais medrosa do que isso
e a certeza que transparece
a certeza de estar a ser transformada
por uma espécie de portão
que se abre à minha frente
e assinala uma passagem dolorosa
faz-me temer o confronto
num espaço periclitante
entre os passos que dou
e os sons dos passos dos outros
receio a minha identidade
tanto como a minha clarividência febril
e na debilidade própria da lucidez
falta-me a fragilidade
para ser funâmbula
The Novelist’s Comments
After I read my poem addressed to one of his people’s heroes,
in his reclaimed, autochthonous voice
the novelist doesn’t say:
This is our language, our land.
Nor does he say:
Why don’t you go back where you came from?
And in what he doesn’t say he is echoing the woman
who after burying her father – a rare fluent speaker of language –
declared she should have chucked his tapes and journals,
his repository of the tongue, after him into the mouth
of the grave:
So that the white bastards wouldn’t get that too.
quarta-feira, 13 de outubro de 2010
No one here,
and the body
says: whatever is said
is not to be said. But no one
is a body as well,
and what the body says
is heard by no one
and night. The repetition
of a murder
among the trees. The pen
across the earth: it no longer knows
what will happen, and the hand that
Nevertheless, it writes.
in the beginning,
among the trees, a body came walking
from the night. It
the body's whiteness
is the color of earth. It is earth,
the earth writes: everything
is the color of silence.
I am no
longer here. I have never said
what you say
I have said. And yet, the body
is a place
where nothing dies. And each night,
from the silence of the
trees, you know
that my voice
comes walking toward you.
sábado, 9 de outubro de 2010
I want to tell you the truth:
I have been waiting for you
to give me the knife
watch my mind
and open a new door
where you won’t enter
at least physically
watch time disappear
between the passing moments
we did not share
raise your dead hand
and tell me
what’s inside me
that needs to be freed
the truth is
none of these dreams
make me wash the blood off my hands
I have been waiting for you
to erase me
I have been waiting for you
to suffocate me
but the truth
is that the mirrors within
what’s always been concealed
in a black light
behind the closed eyes
the isolation madness
where I catch what you said
between portraits and hands
and passion habits
a journey that will take me
to a severed place
which is so familiar
quinta-feira, 7 de outubro de 2010
Heroisms, 4, 5
I speak these words directly into his yawn
Open cave of
his dark almost kind
of fire-lit mouth
And the shadows there my words form these shadows
In the back of the hero's throat
A world we applaud where chained to the ground
We watch the trees walk past us. There are other ways to describe the year:
The hero's boredom.
Where the horror is comparison, honor sees
Hands in the trees instead of leaves—
Honesty asks why the applause is so quiet
When the wind blows so hard—
Breath is the atmosphere at utmost extreme
Where the lungs are flowers—thought the dew—
The sun doubts everything, a general statement
In whose light the hero sees these helpless things
Beg mercy, beg darkness for obscurity—
We do not comprehend the awe, it comprehends us—
When leaves fold in halves they look sleepy
Like eyes, but these eyes are fists
quarta-feira, 6 de outubro de 2010
I measure every Grief I meet (561)
I measure every Grief I meet
With narrow, probing, eyes –
I wonder if It weighs like Mine –
Or has an Easier size.
I wonder if They bore it long –
Or did it just begin –
I could not tell the Date of Mine –
It feels so old a pain –
I wonder if it hurts to live –
And if They have to try –
And whether – could They choose between –
It would not be – to die –
I note that Some – gone patient long –
At length, renew their smile –
An imitation of a Light
That has so little Oil –
I wonder if when Years have piled –
Some Thousands – on the Harm –
That hurt them early – such a lapse
Could give them any Balm –
Or would they go on aching still
Through Centuries of Nerve –
Enlightened to a larger Pain –
In Contrast with the Love –
The Grieved – are many – I am told –
There is the various Cause –
Death – is but one – and comes but once –
And only nails the eyes –
There's Grief of Want – and grief of Cold –
A sort they call "Despair" –
There's Banishment from native Eyes –
In sight of Native Air –
And though I may not guess the kind –
Correctly – yet to me
A piercing Comfort it affords
In passing Calvary –
To note the fashions – of the Cross –
And how they're mostly worn –
Still fascinated to presume
That Some – are like my own –
sexta-feira, 1 de outubro de 2010
I close my eyes
when you lie
it is grief
now that you’re inside me
let’s relive the past
once and for all
and be spiteful
there’s nothing quite like the morning dew
when it’s being swallowed whole
in a sort of darkness
that resembles us
what we are
now that it’s too late to stop
too late to stop the stains
is nothing like a symbiosis
but it is always a reminder
of what might have been
quarta-feira, 29 de setembro de 2010
9773 Comanche Ave
In color photographs, my childhood house looks
fresh as an uncut sheet cake—
pale yellow buttercream, ribbons of white trim
squeezed from the grooved tip of a pastry tube.
Whose dream was this confection?
This suburb of identical, pillow-mint homes?
The sky, too, is pastel. Children roller skate
down the new sidewalk. Fathers stake young trees.
Mothers plan baby showers and Tupperware parties.
The Avon Lady treks door to door.
Six or seven years old, I stand on the front porch,
hand on the decorative cast-iron trellis that frames it,
squinting in California sunlight,
striped short-sleeved shirt buttoned at the neck.
I sit in the backyard (this picture's black-and-white),
my Flintstones playset spread out on the grass.
I arrange each plastic character, each dinosaur,
each palm tree and round "granite" house.
Half a century later, I barely recognize it
when I search the address on Google Maps
and, via "Street view," find myself face to face—
foliage overgrown, facade remodeled and painted
a drab brown. I click to zoom: light hits
one of the windows. I can almost see what's inside.
domingo, 26 de setembro de 2010
quarta-feira, 22 de setembro de 2010
When everything was accounted for
you rummaged through my bag to find
something offensive: a revolver,
a notebook of misinterpreted text.
I'm God's professor.
His eyes two open ovens.
He has a physical body
and it hiccups and blesses.
Tell me a story before the mudslide,
tell it fast before the house falls,
before it withers in the frost, before
it dozes off next to the television.
I couldn't tell if it was that screen
or the sky spitting dust and light.
terça-feira, 21 de setembro de 2010
My mother was led into the world
by her teeth
like a bull
She only ever wanted to be a mother her whole life and
nothing else, not even a human being!
One body turned into
Pulled like that
by the golden voices of children
out of hell
her teeth out in front of her
First I walk my mother out
into the field
by a leash
by a lifetime
then she walks me out
I brush her hair
Wipe the flies away from her eyes
They are my eyes
Who will ride my mother
when we aren't around
Her children won't
Turned from one thing into another until you are a bull
standing in a field
The field just beginning
to whistle us
Then I am led by the mouth
out into the yellow
The light turning to water in the early evening, the insects
dying in the cold and coming back in the morning
Something has to come back
I have put on my horse-head
Led by a bit
My leader is tall and the hair on her forearms is gold
It is a miracle
to lower your eyes
into the tall grass
sábado, 18 de setembro de 2010
Take a good look, she says about her inventory.
Palatially housed, her inflammatory and multifaceted
set of selves.
Old brain inside the new brain, inside the skull.
The exact velocity of quantum particles cannot be known.
Like wave equations in the space of certain dimensions.
I never thought that things would go this far.
Angular momentum of closely-knit and sexually
Any piece of matter, when heated, starts to glow.
It's that kind of relationship that's built on friction.
quinta-feira, 16 de setembro de 2010
domingo, 12 de setembro de 2010
Finding the Words
I found the words at the back of a drawer,
wrapped in black cloth, like three rings
slipped from a dead woman's hand, cold,
dull gold. I had held them before,
then put them away, forgetting whatever it was
I could use them to say. I touched the first to my lips,
the second, the third, like a sacrament,
like a pledge, like a kiss,
and my breath
warmed them, the words I needed to utter this, small words,
and few. I rubbed at them till they gleamed in my palm -
I love you, I love you, I love you -
as though they were new.
sexta-feira, 10 de setembro de 2010
Some are Born to sweet delight,
Some are Born to Endless Night.
We are led to Believe a Lie
When we see not Thro the Eye
Which was Born in a Night to perish in a Night,
When the Soul slept in Beams of Light.
God appears, and God is light
To those poor Souls who Dwell in Night,
But does a Human Form Display
To those who Dwell in Realms of Day.
Auguries of Innocence, William Blake (1803)
auguries of innocence
o que acontece quando vemos o mundo?
o que acontece quando percebemos que o mundo é um cavalo
de flores com o inferno à volta da cintura?
o que acontece quando deixamos de o sentir
na palma da nossa mão?
quando o mundo e as suas formas nascem de novo em todas as noites.
o que diz o mundo que seja verdade?
o que o mundo me sussurra ao ouvido, com a mão sobre o meu ombro,
é tudo inventado.
o que acontece quando sentimos o mundo?
o que acontece quando deixamos sair dos olhos a inocência?
o que acontece quando sabemos que o mundo é uma estrada de areia?
o que acontece quando deixamos que o mundo nos minta?
o que é que nos diz o mundo que possamos ver?
o que acontece no mundo quando o mundo que achamos ser mundo
é a raiva e o espírito do sangue humano.
quando fomos um mundo que existiu
exclusivamente dentro de nós.
terça-feira, 7 de setembro de 2010
I built a road to cross
an infinite road of hope
at the end of the road
there’s me waiting
the other me
an egotistical self born of pain
I expect certain things to happen
I predict my intelligence will wither
when I cross
and reach the other side
I expect someone to tell me to stop
like someone always does
when I cross
I predict I will find a scar
inside of me
others will be able to hear
my steps into vertigo
the irony of it all
and when I cross
I know what I will find
pointing a gun at my face:
Walking backward from the sea,
scales shedding, you seek the cave.
This is why the French door admits
only ocean. You stare into the louver
and forget how to get out. Lull
is the word, or loll. The sea returns,
completing your pulse, the waves live,
each breath of yours worship.
domingo, 5 de setembro de 2010
Daughters of Time, the hypocritic Days,
Muffled and dumb like barefoot dervishes,
And marching single in an endless file,
Bring diadems and fagots in their hands.
To each they offer gifts after his will,
Bread, kingdom, stars, and sky that holds them all.
I, in my pleached garden, watched the pomp,
Forgot my morning wishes, hastily
Took a few herbs and apples, and the Day
Turned and departed silent. I, too late,
Under her solemn fillet saw the scorn.