Saltar para: Posts [1], Pesquisa [2]

luís soares

Blog do escritor Luís Soares

Aimee Nezhukumatathil - Sea Church

Give me a church
made entirely of salt.
Let the walls hiss
and smoke when
I return to shore.

 

I ask for the grace
of a new freckle
on my cheek, the lift
of blue and my mother’s
soapy skin to greet me.

 

Hide me in a room
with no windows.
Never let me see
the dolphins leaping
into commas

 

for this water-prayer
rising like a host
of sky lanterns into
the inky evening.
Let them hang

 

in the sky until
they vanish at the edge
of the constellations — 
the heroes and animals
too busy and bright to notice.

Thom Gunn - Considering the Snail

The snail pushes through a green
night, for the grass is heavy
with water and meets over
the bright path he makes, where rain
has darkened the earth’s dark. He
moves in a wood of desire,

 

pale antlers barely stirring
as he hunts. I cannot tell
what power is at work, drenched there
with purpose, knowing nothing.
What is a snail’s fury? All
I think is that if later

 

I parted the blades above
the tunnel and saw the thin
trail of broken white across
litter, I would never have
imagined the slow passion
to that deliberate progress.

Allen Ginsberg - America

America I’ve given you all and now I’m nothing. 

America two dollars and twentyseven cents January 17, 1956.   

I can’t stand my own mind. 

America when will we end the human war? 

Go fuck yourself with your atom bomb. 

I don’t feel good don’t bother me. 

I won’t write my poem till I’m in my right mind. 

America when will you be angelic? 

When will you take off your clothes? 

When will you look at yourself through the grave? 

When will you be worthy of your million Trotskyites? 

America why are your libraries full of tears? 

America when will you send your eggs to India? 

I’m sick of your insane demands. 

When can I go into the supermarket and buy what I need with my good looks? 

America after all it is you and I who are perfect not the next world.   

Your machinery is too much for me. 

You made me want to be a saint. 

There must be some other way to settle this argument.   

Burroughs is in Tangiers I don’t think he’ll come back it’s sinister.   

Are you being sinister or is this some form of practical joke?   

I’m trying to come to the point. 

I refuse to give up my obsession. 

America stop pushing I know what I’m doing. 

America the plum blossoms are falling. 

I haven’t read the newspapers for months, everyday somebody goes on trial for murder. 

America I feel sentimental about the Wobblies. 

America I used to be a communist when I was a kid I’m not sorry.   

I smoke marijuana every chance I get. 

I sit in my house for days on end and stare at the roses in the closet.   

When I go to Chinatown I get drunk and never get laid.   

My mind is made up there’s going to be trouble. 

You should have seen me reading Marx. 

My psychoanalyst thinks I’m perfectly right. 

I won’t say the Lord’s Prayer. 

I have mystical visions and cosmic vibrations. 

America I still haven’t told you what you did to Uncle Max after he came over from Russia. 

I’m addressing you. 

Are you going to let your emotional life be run by Time Magazine?   

I’m obsessed by Time Magazine. 

I read it every week. 

Its cover stares at me every time I slink past the corner candystore.   

I read it in the basement of the Berkeley Public Library. 

It’s always telling me about responsibility. Businessmen are serious. Movie producers are serious. Everybody’s serious but me.   

It occurs to me that I am America. 

I am talking to myself again. 

 

Asia is rising against me. 

I haven’t got a chinaman’s chance. 

I’d better consider my national resources. 

My national resources consist of two joints of marijuana millions of genitals an unpublishable private literature that jetplanes 1400 miles an hour and twentyfive-thousand mental institutions. 

I say nothing about my prisons nor the millions of underprivileged who live in my flowerpots under the light of five hundred suns. 

I have abolished the whorehouses of France, Tangiers is the next to go. 

My ambition is to be President despite the fact that I’m a Catholic. 

 

America how can I write a holy litany in your silly mood? 

I will continue like Henry Ford my strophes are as individual as his automobiles more so they’re all different sexes. 

America I will sell you strophes $2500 apiece $500 down on your old strophe 

America free Tom Mooney 

America save the Spanish Loyalists 

America Sacco & Vanzetti must not die 

America I am the Scottsboro boys. 

America when I was seven momma took me to Communist Cell meetings they sold us garbanzos a handful per ticket a ticket costs a nickel and the speeches were free everybody was angelic and sentimental about the workers it was all so sincere you have no idea what a good thing the party was in 1835 Scott Nearing was a grand old man a real mensch Mother Bloor the Silk-strikers’ Ewig-Weibliche made me cry I once saw the Yiddish orator Israel Amter plain. Everybody must have been a spy. 

America you don’t really want to go to war. 

America its them bad Russians. 

Them Russians them Russians and them Chinamen. And them Russians.   

The Russia wants to eat us alive. The Russia’s power mad. She wants to take our cars from out our garages. 

Her wants to grab Chicago. Her needs a Red Reader’s Digest. Her wants our auto plants in Siberia. Him big bureaucracy running our fillingstations. 

That no good. Ugh. Him make Indians learn read. Him need big black niggers. Hah. Her make us all work sixteen hours a day. Help.   

America this is quite serious. 

America this is the impression I get from looking in the television set.   

America is this correct? 

I’d better get right down to the job. 

It’s true I don’t want to join the Army or turn lathes in precision parts factories, I’m nearsighted and psychopathic anyway. 

America I’m putting my queer shoulder to the wheel. 

 

Berkeley, January 17, 1956

Lawrence Ferlinghetti - I Am Waiting

I am waiting for my case to come up  

and I am waiting

for a rebirth of wonder

and I am waiting for someone

to really discover America

and wail

and I am waiting  

for the discovery

of a new symbolic western frontier  

and I am waiting  

for the American Eagle

to really spread its wings

and straighten up and fly right

and I am waiting

for the Age of Anxiety

to drop dead

and I am waiting

for the war to be fought

which will make the world safe

for anarchy

and I am waiting

for the final withering away

of all governments

and I am perpetually awaiting

a rebirth of wonder

 

I am waiting for the Second Coming  

and I am waiting

for a religious revival

to sweep thru the state of Arizona  

and I am waiting

for the Grapes of Wrath to be stored  

and I am waiting

for them to prove

that God is really American

and I am waiting

to see God on television

piped onto church altars

if only they can find  

the right channel  

to tune in on

and I am waiting

for the Last Supper to be served again

with a strange new appetizer

and I am perpetually awaiting

a rebirth of wonder

 

I am waiting for my number to be called

and I am waiting

for the Salvation Army to take over

and I am waiting

for the meek to be blessed

and inherit the earth  

without taxes

and I am waiting

for forests and animals

to reclaim the earth as theirs

and I am waiting

for a way to be devised

to destroy all nationalisms

without killing anybody

and I am waiting

for linnets and planets to fall like rain

and I am waiting for lovers and weepers

to lie down together again

in a new rebirth of wonder

 

I am waiting for the Great Divide to be crossed  

and I am anxiously waiting

for the secret of eternal life to be discovered  

by an obscure general practitioner

and I am waiting

for the storms of life

to be over

and I am waiting

to set sail for happiness

and I am waiting

for a reconstructed Mayflower

to reach America

with its picture story and tv rights

sold in advance to the natives

and I am waiting

for the lost music to sound again

in the Lost Continent

in a new rebirth of wonder

 

I am waiting for the day

that maketh all things clear

and I am awaiting retribution

for what America did  

to Tom Sawyer  

and I am waiting

for Alice in Wonderland

to retransmit to me

her total dream of innocence

and I am waiting

for Childe Roland to come

to the final darkest tower

and I am waiting  

for Aphrodite

to grow live arms

at a final disarmament conference

in a new rebirth of wonder

 

I am waiting

to get some intimations

of immortality

by recollecting my early childhood

and I am waiting

for the green mornings to come again  

youth’s dumb green fields come back again

and I am waiting

for some strains of unpremeditated art

to shake my typewriter

and I am waiting to write

the great indelible poem

and I am waiting

for the last long careless rapture

and I am perpetually waiting

for the fleeing lovers on the Grecian Urn  

to catch each other up at last

and embrace

and I am awaiting  

perpetually and forever

a renaissance of wonder

James Richardson - Fire Warnings

So much on the verge
of flame.
In a hot
wind anything
is tinder: paper, sage

 

feverish with bees,
your auburn
hair, my hand
that glows with a thought.
Sunset

 

or sleepless dawn,
nothing is sure
but what’s already burned—
water that’s ash, steel
that has flowed and cooled,

 

though in the core
of a star, they too
would fuse and rage,
and even volcanic
glass and char,

 

and the cold seas,
and even    
what we once were
might burn again—
or in the heart.

Matthew Zapruder - Poem for Passengers

Like all strangers who temporarily
find themselves moving in the same direction
we look out the window
without really seeing or down at our phones
trying to catch the dying signal
then the famous lonesome whistle
so many singers have sung about
blows and our bodies shudder
soon we will pick up speed
and pass the abandoned factories
there has lately been so much conversation about
through broken windows they stare
asking us to decide
but we fall asleep next to each other
riding into the tunnel
sharing without knowing the same dream
in it we are carrying something
an empty casket somehow so heavy
only together can we carry it
over a bridge in the snow
emerging suddenly into the light
we wake and open our laptops
or a book about murder
or a glossy magazine
though we are mostly awake
part of us still goes on solving
problems so great they cannot be named
even once we have reached our destination
and disembark into whatever weather
for a long time there is a compartment
within us filled with analog silence
inside us the dream goes on and on

Olivia Gatwood - Back-pedal

​​the boys and i are playing quarters with double shots of vodka and i am winning. by winning i mean i am not one of the boys but i am the next best thing. by the next best thing i mean i am a girl and i am drunk. every time i miss a shot, johnny gets to flick a quarter against my knuckles and now my knuckles are bleeding onto my thighs but every time i make a shot i get to knock back a throat full of liquor. i slam down the glass until it cracks up the side and now the game is about who will still drink from it, who will risk shards in the belly, who will cut up their insides for a pack of newports and it’s not that i even want the cigarettes, it’s just that i am not afraid of blood which is also part of being a girl. but being the only girl means making yourself lose when you’ve won too much so i bounce the coin off the rim of the shot glass and let johnny slice me open. in thirty minutes, johnny is dragging me out of the bathroom by my wrists and i can hear him saying something about blood on the carpet, about a drunk girl in the house who is staining everything and i think that means i must be the champion of quarters. johnny is the kind of guy who sleeps with a gun, not women. but johnny is always the one inviting me over for a game of quarters and sometimes i wonder if this is how johnny fucks. like maybe he is the kind of man who only screams when he is underwater or lets me feel how strong his fingers are without actually touching me. maybe that’s why we’re all here, even the boys, to let johnny hold us like a barred window. i work a double one day a week and on this day, don’t answer johnny’s call. by one day a week i mean two men break in and shoot johnny in the temple for two-thousand pills and i am scraping pasta from a business man’s plate into the trash. at some point i’ll tell you why i didn’t go to the wake. i guess i never really knew johnny like that. by that i mean sober or in a church. when i say i didnt go to the wake i mean i drove by his house everyday for two years and the for sale sign never got taken down like the house would always be johnny’s, like maybe the whole town knew what happened there. like maybe no one could get rid of the blood.

James Richardson - Post-Romantic

Now that it's over
between me and Nature
I like her better.
We've given up
senseless fear,
useless hope.
She's got herself together.

 

Just hanging on, but trim,
surprising, capable,
she shows, toward evening,
some of the old flashes.
If her solitudes,
amazed and kind,
can't be mine,
or her gaze of waters
stirs others,
no harm done.
She's on her own.

 

And don't misunderstand:
it's not yearning,
but the old courtesy
of life for life,
when sometimes, often,
out for nothing,
I stop for a minute
to hear our songs
high up, crossing.