Poem of the day: Around Us

Marvin Bell Around Us
We need some pines to assuage the darkness when it blankets the mind, we need a silvery stream that banks as smoothly as a plane's wing, and a worn bed of needles to pad the rumble that fills the mind, and a blur or two of a wild thing that sees and is not seen. We need these things between appointments, after work, and, if we keep them, then someone someday, lying down after a walk and supper, with the fire hole wet down, the whole night sky set at a particular time, without numbers or hours, will cause a little sound of thanks--a zipper or a snap-- to close round the moment and the thought of whatever good we did.

Regresso a um passado mais recente: ruídos

ruídos

o ruído

do meu corpo tombado

inexpressivo

num deserto sem cor

hábil

no contorno

distante monóculo

perímetro de segurança

alerta

pele

poder

palavra

embargo

de incenso

raízes

fractura imposta

maçã mordida

cegueira

dançamos

um passo

posso mudar

devagar

posso mudar

sem saber

Poem of the day: The Republic of Dreams

Michael Palmer

The Republic of Dreams

She lay so still that
as she spoke

a spider spun a seamless web
upon her body

as we spoke
and then her limbs came loose

one by one
and so my own

Conhecendo Alice Vieira: quatro poemas

Alice Vieira

a) 2

como dizer aos meus olhos que se afastem

do incêndio que lavra a oriente do teu sangue

rasgando a minha fome

e me protejam nesta imperfeita madrugada

em que as línguas dos homens e dos anjos

se confundem

b) 1

de tudo o que era meu deixo-te o fogo

os resíduos do tempo a ferida gangrenada

o palato onde a língua se desvenda

nos ritos obscuros da morte

deixo-te ainda o declínio dos lugares

onde as vozes amadas se perderam para sempre

e o eco das palavras desgarradas ao meio-dia

quando os cães ladravam

no calor dos pátios clandestinos

- e aquele estranho lugar no coração

aberto sempre a quem chegava mesmo quando

não sabíamos o seu nome

c) 5

a língua sobre a pele o arrepio

os teus dedos nas escadas do meu corpo

as lâminas do amor o fogo a espuma

a transbordar de ti na tua fuga

a palavra mordida entre os lençóis

as cinzas de outro lume à cabeceira

da mesma esquina sempre o mesmo olhar:

nada do que era teu vou devolver

d) 6

entre a saliva e os sonhos há sempre

uma ferida de que não conseguimos

regressar

e uma noite a vida

começa a doer muito

e os espelhos donde as almas partiram

agarram-nos pelos ombros e murmuram

como são terríveis os olhos do amor

quando acordam vazios

Fonte: excertos de Dois Corpos Tombando Na Água

Poem of the day: Blood

C. Dale Young

Blood

Someone has already pulled a knife
across my chest, and the rope has already
gripped our wrists drawing blood.

I am naked, and I cannot be sure
if you are as well. In the room, the men
come and go, yelling blood bath, half-blood,

blood-bitch. We never hear the word trueblood.
In my dreams I am dying all the time.
We are bound and gagged, blindfolded,

but still I know you must be the one
lying there, the cool anodized steel table
beneath us, the two of us side by side.

Lying there, my shoulder blades ache,
and there is blood collecting in
the corners of my mouth. But then it happens,

just as it always happens: your fingers
suddenly twist into tiny shoots, your arms
break free as you accept the shape

of a tree, the leaves sprouting, the delicate
bark rising up from your skin's surface.
Try as I might, I never seem able.

On the telephone this morning, I again
keep the dream to myself. Half-blood
becomes half-breed. Blood-bitch

becomes blood-sister. But blood never lies,
does it? Blood carries so many secrets
one can only hear its murmurs in our arteries,

its incessant monologue, in the quiet
night's bed just before sleep. Blood says
You are more and, sometimes, You are less.

Poem of the day: The Things

Donald Hall

The Things

When I walk in my house I see pictures,
bought long ago, framed and hanging
—de Kooning, Arp, Laurencin, Henry Moore—
that I've cherished and stared at for years,
yet my eyes keep returning to the masters
of the trivial—a white stone perfectly round,
tiny lead models of baseball players, a cowbell,
a broken great-grandmother's rocker,
a dead dog's toy—valueless, unforgettable
detritus that my children will throw away
as I did my mother's souvenirs of trips
with my dead father, Kodaks of kittens,
and bundles of cards from her mother Kate.

Poem of the day: Exact

Rae Armantrout

Exact

Quick, before you die,
describe

the exact shade
of this hotel carpet.

What is the meaning
of the irregular, yellow

spheres, some
hollow,

gathered in patches
on this bedspread?

If you love me,
worship

the objects
I have caused

to represent me
in my absence.


*

Over and over
tiers

of houses spill
pleasantly

down that hillside.
It

might be possible
to count occurrences.

Poem of the day: Exoskeletal Gesture

Eric Baus

Exoskeletal Gesture

Venom erupted from the trees when the vital system of the brook reset its serum stem.

Can suspended snakes compose a more careless music? Do two detached wings count as an

exoskeletal gesture? A hiss is the sound the sky would make if these leaves revived their flight.

Poem of the day:The House

Richard Wilbur

The House

Sometimes, on waking, she would close her eyes
For a last look at that white house she knew
In sleep alone, and held no title to,
And had not entered yet, for all her sighs.

What did she tell me of that house of hers?
White gatepost; terrace; fanlight of the door;
A widow's walk above the bouldered shore;
Salt winds that ruffle the surrounding firs.

Is she now there, wherever there may be?
Only a foolish man would hope to find
That haven fashioned by her dreaming mind.
Night after night, my love, I put to sea.

Poem of the day: Strip Show

Zach Savich

Strip Show

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.

Poem of the day: Wolf Cento

Simone Muench

Wolf Cento

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

Poem of the day: Almost There

Timothy Liu

Almost There

Hard to imagine getting
anywhere near another semi-
nude encounter down this concrete
slab of interstate, the two of us
all thumbs—

white-throated swifts mating mid-flight
instead of buckets of
crispy wings thrown down
hoi polloi—
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—

Poem of the day: A Book Said Dream and I Do

Barbara Ras

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.

My poems: naming things

naming things

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

with words

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

intact

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 exposed

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

about intimacy

that doesn’t force us to be closer?

why should we wait?

Poema do dia: Sobre os poetas que inventaram

Jorge Letria

Sobre os poetas que inventaram

Tenho na mesa uma estrela do mar

e na almofada uma rosa dos ventos.

Tudo me sabe a viagem, mesmo quando

permaneço imóvel, separando no cais

o centeio e o vinho, a pimenta e o ouro.

Não fui almirante de nenhuma armada

nem grumete de nenhum naufrágio;

fui a nau frágil da loucura das ondas,

o albatroz rendido ao chamamento do longe,

a sereia apodrecida nas redes da faina.

Nesse tempo em que eu era tudo e não era nada,

em que existia somente na perdição dos mapas,

vinham as viúvas chorar por mim

com lágrimas do tamanho de pérolas,

do tamanho de conchas no desespero das dunas.

Ai dos poetas que se alimentam apenas do vivido,

ai dos olhos vencidos pela evidência do real.

Eu sou dos que inventam, dos que sempre inventaram,

dos que não podem ser levados a sério,

mesmo quando vestem a roupagem da tristeza absoluta.

Um poeta não pode resumir-se ao que é tangível,

sob pena de ser pequeno de mais para caber num verso.

Poem of the day: Challenger

Lyrae Van Clief-Stefanon

Challenger

pretty's just armor
something else

to wear like a dress or a name
not magic like skin

apparel apparent apparently
repellant pretty
don't draw

flies like
honey we just pretend

it does skin is

what draws you don't
believe me

just think skin flick

the winter sky
is not a skin you
might fly right

out

past it but pretty
makes an atmosphere
it's hard to get back in

one hitch one weak

O ring and you are that
white dense
puff of pinkish smoke

too thick for cloud
trailers swerving off in opposite
directions someone not
coming home you believed
lifting off you were

bound somewhere boundless
you will never be that

pretty again

Poem of the day: The Process

Joseph Massey

The Process

Cross-stitched
outside sounds
double the day's

indoor confusion.
How to untwine
noise, to see.

There's the bay,
highway slashed
beneath; water

a weaker shade
of gray than this
momentary sky's

widening bruise.
The page turns
on the table, bare

despite all
I thought was
written there.

Poem of the day: Vision

Erica Funkhouser

Vision

With age
mirage
assuages
what the youthful eye
would have studied
until identified—
chicory? bluebird? debris?
Today no nomenclature
ruptures
the composure
of a chalk-blue haze
pausing, even dawdling,
now and then trembling
over what I'm going to call
fresh water.

Os Meus Poemas: encarar o livro de frente

encarar o livro de frente

podia até chorar

por um livro

que estivesse em cima da mesa

a servir de amparo

para as horas em que encaro a vida de frente

estou a ter dificuldades

em acalmar sentimentos

em conseguir viver os pensamentos

que estão a dar passos na minha memória viva

mas de que vale chorar

se as vozes estridentes

vieram para ficar

e as palavras que estão dentro dos livros

correm umas atrás das outras

na minha direcção

para me matar

Poem of the day: Vertical

Linda Pastan

Vertical

Perhaps the purpose
of leaves is to conceal
the verticality
of trees
which we notice
in December
as if for the first time:
row after row
of dark forms
yearning upwards.
And since we will be
horizontal ourselves
for so long,
let us now honor
the gods
of the vertical:
stalks of wheat
which to the ant
must seem as high
as these trees do to us,
silos and
telephone poles,
stalagmites
and skyscrapers.
but most of all
these winter oaks,
these soft-fleshed poplars,
this birch
whose bark is like
roughened skin
against which I lean
my chilled head,
not ready
to lie down.