segunda-feira, 28 de fevereiro de 2011
domingo, 27 de fevereiro de 2011
sábado, 26 de fevereiro de 2011
as coisas muito concretas
que parecem alucinações
quando olhamos para elas e nos afastamos
daquilo que é poesia
e daquilo que são corpos pregados num céu sem estrelas
feito a partir de retalhos e remendos dos contos que me contas
com os olhos fechados
para o mundo
e se agora me atingisse um relâmpago
quando estou a acordar
e a ser engolida pela noite
uma coisa concreta
tudo se transformaria
numa coisa desfeita
aquilo que escondemos
por entre sorrisos abertos
e momentos transitórios
colocar-nos-á um pouco mais longe
do que vemos reflectido
e a sensação com que ficamos
é que as coisas concretas
não nos deixam ser aquilo que queremos
quinta-feira, 24 de fevereiro de 2011
Lightning-torn bark lured on the lower limbs, a sym-
bol of how a bole bares itself in time. I've tried
to wear my sheddings so gracefully
that finches will not flush at the foul capillary sheen my
systolic nerve acts out its barn-raisings slash burnings by.
Have a heart. Mine murmurs yes and no and yet now.
quarta-feira, 23 de fevereiro de 2011
Very quick. Very intense, like a wolf
at a live heart, the sun breaks down.
What is important is to avoid
the time allotted for disavowels
as the livid wound
leaves a trace leaves an abscess
takes its contraction for those clouds
that dip thunder & vanish
like rose leaves in closed jars.
Age approaches, slowly. But it cannot
crystal bone into thin air.
The small hours open their wounds for me.
This is a woman's confession:
I keep this wolf because the wilderness gave it to me
domingo, 20 de fevereiro de 2011
sexta-feira, 18 de fevereiro de 2011
The Truth About the Present
after Bei Dao
when rivers are intoxicated
with dioxide you gather lotus shoots
to pick their pockets is
the clock of the age
when the last songbird
shivers with undue cold like wires overhead
to handle harsh metals is
the clock of the age
when your keyboard dissolves
in the pit of nations
to write in echoes is
the clock of the age
when you forge transparencies
in the foundries upstream
the bridges are blocked by karaoke
their digital sand is
the clock of the age
the cell phone's face is always
time-dependent on fingers somewhere
today opens to the nearby delta
is the clock of the age
Hard to imagine getting
anywhere near another semi-
nude encounter down this concrete
slab of interstate, the two of us
white-throated swifts mating mid-flight
instead of buckets of
crispy wings thrown down
an army of mouths
eager to feed
left without any lasting sustenance.
Best get down on all fours.
Ease our noses past
rear-end collisions wrapped around
guardrails shaking loose their bolts
while unseen choirs jacked on
airwaves go on preaching
loud and clear to every
last pair of unrepentant ears—
quarta-feira, 16 de fevereiro de 2011
What Elizabeth Bishop Could Not Know
Black women keep secrets tied up in hankies
they stuff in their bras, secrets of how their necks
are connected to their spines in the precise gyration
of a jelly sweetened in nights they had to keep
to themselves, nights prowlers came in to change
the faces of their children, secrets like the good
googa mooga laughter they do with each other
when something affirms their suspicions, when
their eyes are made the prayerbooks of fate crafted
in the wisdom that knows there is no north or south
in black wandering, searching the new land, a song
they wrestle from black men, the broken ones
who had to be shown where and how to stand,
how to respect pain and the way it governs itself,
secrets, things made out of generations and not kept
in the glass selections of an old juke box.
segunda-feira, 14 de fevereiro de 2011
sábado, 12 de fevereiro de 2011
A Book Said Dream and I Do
There were feathers and the light that passed through feathers.
There were birds that made the feathers and the sun that made the light.
The feathers of the birds made the air soft, softer
than the quiet in a cocoon waiting for wings,
stiller than the stare of a hooded falcon.
But no falcons in this green made by the passage of parents.
No, not parents, parrots flying through slow sleep
casting green rays to light the long dream.
If skin, dew would have drenched it, but dust
hung in space like the stoppage of
time itself, which, after dancing with parrots,
had said, Thank you. I'll rest now.
It's not too late to say the parrot light was thick
enough to part with a hand, and the feathers softening
the path, fallen after so much touching of cheeks,
were red, hibiscus red split by veins of flight
now at the end of flying.
Despite the halt of time, the feathers trusted red
and believed indolence would fill the long dream,
until the book shut and time began again to hurt.
Since my Beloved chambered me
To beat within her breast,
And took my soul to light a shrine
Her soul had decked and dressed,
And caught my songs about her throat,—
Dissected, known, confessed,
I dwell within her charity
A half-unwelcome guest.
Like moon-dark, like brown water you escape,
O laughing mouth, O sweet uplifted lips.
Within the peering brain old ghosts take shape;
You flame and wither as the white foam slips
Back from the broken wave: sometimes a start,
A gesture of the hands, a way you own
Of bending that smooth head above your heart,—
Then these are vanished, then the dream is gone.
Oh, you are too much mine and flesh of me
To seal upon the brain, who in the blood
Are so intense a pulse, so swift a flood
Of beauty, such unceasing instancy.
Dear unimagined brow, unvisioned face,
All beauty has become your dwelling place.
quarta-feira, 9 de fevereiro de 2011
To George Sand: A Desire
Thou large-brained woman and large-hearted man,
Self-called George Sand! whose soul, amid the lions
Of thy tumultuous senses, moans defiance
And answers roar for roar, as spirits can:
I would some mild miraculous thunder ran
Above the applauded circus, in appliance
Of thine own nobler nature's strength and science,
Drawing two pinions, white as wings of swan,
From thy strong shoulders, to amaze the place
With holier light! that thou to woman's claim
And man's, mightst join beside the angel's grace
Of a pure genius sanctified from blame
Till child and maiden pressed to thine embrace
To kiss upon thy lips a stainless fame.
domingo, 6 de fevereiro de 2011
sábado, 5 de fevereiro de 2011
why did you shut the lights?
I was watching the birth of your face
the music coming out of your lips
and now there is only a dance of shadows
who don’t belong
let’s not name our feelings for now
there is no need to scare them away
we don’t need to think about what’s to come
or predict it
the moments will end up discovering themselves
let’s not open ajar boxes
let’s not keep them
we can promise that we will never stay the same
and break that promise
because it is so easy to fall apart
but not as easy as turning the lights on again
there is so much more that we can see
when there is no pain involved
the process of acknowledgement of one another
is completed when we are quiet
and everything that can be uncovered
deserves to be
and maybe we will find ourselves that way
when we least expect
and start living at once
because what else is there to learn
that doesn’t force us to be closer?
why should we wait?