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luís soares

Blog do escritor Luís Soares

John Ashbery - They Knew What They Wanted

They all kissed the bride.
They all laughed.
They came from beyond space.
They came by night.

They came to a city.
They came to blow up America.
They came to rob Las Vegas.
They dare not love.

They died with their boots on.
They shoot horses, don’t they?
They go boom.
They got me covered.

They flew alone.
They gave him a gun.
They just had to get married.
They live. They loved life.

They live by night.
They drive by night.
They knew Mr Knight.
They were expendable.

They met in Argentina.
They met in Bombay.
They met in the dark.
They might be giants.

They made me a fugitive.
They made me a criminal.
They only kill their masters.
They shall have music.

They were sisters.
They still call me Bruce.
They won’t believe me.
They won’t forget.

I am a cute painting but a terrible photograph.

God Is a Loosy Cigarette I Want to Smoke

 

I lost me. I ran away.

 

If there is a god why did it fill my heart
with turpentine, saltwater and doubt?

 

Oh my god, fuck it.
Oh my fuck, god it.

 

I haven’t lost god, it’s lost me.
I’ve run away from the god in me.

 

I’ve learned how to hunt and find food
but god is a butter I will never spread
I have replaced god with prescriptions.

 

Hello, my name is Thomas Fucaloro
and I am leaving poetry to spend more time
with my goldfish.

 

My goldfish has a pill problem, I don’t.

 

I have a god problem.

 

I keep thinking me it but it is never me.

 

I need to find something that will make me happy
within this ball of anger, I have a Thomas problem.

 

There is too much of him, not enough surf board.
Not enough belief that the wave will rise me up.

 

O’ I need to rise me up.

 

I am the beginning of a rope I will end.

 

These pills a rope with no end.

 

Bi-polar depression or not
I will fuck the rug right from under me
just as long as I can milligram a little bit more of this depression,
this god, this drug, it wears on me.

 

How to be a human.
No, how to be a sensible and unprescribed adult.

 

Costco now has a prescription pill counter,
synthetic happiness in bulk.

 

It makes you feel like 5 awesomes a day.
I take many awesomes a day to help control the voices.

 

I am a cute painting but a terrible photograph.

 

I have been working on me since I was a child.
These pills have been working on this child since I was an adult.
These adults have been working on this child since I was a pill.

 

I was never here.
I was never even really there.
I am not real.

 

Just

 

like

 

god.

 

Thomas Fucaloro

Anne Sexton - The Kite

Cape Cod, 1954-1959

 

Here in front of the summer hotel
the beach waits like an altar.
We are lying on a cloth of sand
while the Atlantic noon stains
the world in light.
                                 It was much the same
five years ago here. I remember
how Ezio Pinza was flying a kite
for the children. None of us noticed
it then. The pleated lady
was still a nest of her knitting.
Four pouchy fellows kept their policy
of gin and tonic while trading some money.
The parasol girls slept, sun-sitting
their lovely years. No one thought
how precious it was, or even how funny
the festival seemed, square rigged in the air.
The air was a season they had bought,
like the cloth of sand.
                                        I’ve been waiting
on this private stretch of summer land,
counting these five years and wondering why.
I mean, it was different that time
with Ezio Pinza flying a kite.
Maybe, after all, he knew something more
and was right.

John Ashbery - Passive/Aggressive

We were driving along
at twenty-five miles an hour.
‘Desperate’ wants to know
how the angle tree has went. Or we now
can live over a wombat factory,
said the woman coming in to see him
about something.

 

And I was like,
a beautiful little tree, or lake.
Just the sandwiches now,
we’ll look at the rest later
when you’re out of time …
Oh yeah? Oh, yeah. That’s it.
The water has swirled away to a
secret hiding place deep within earth.

 

Timid thing
out hitting the sun,
get me some peas … You’re going tomorrow,
ribald headache misjudged, gray drunkard.
Lost vagrants unfold scrolls of pity.
I don’t care how big his cock is, I’d … Oh, hullo, Marge.
Shredded any cumulus yesterday?
A sinister joy overtakes us.
Everybody has a body, that’s why they’re called everybody.
The affluent strapped to an accordion,
just as crazy in Baltimore and Point Reyes.
Something I don’t remember eating:
the Mother Hubbard ship.
You seemed to be going good down there.

 

The very tegument strained, shuddering,
causing it to wobble: more dribs
than drabs, what summer
is supposedly about, more fluid, even.
He had spelling issues
but most of all, loved the country,
demented servitor, and what that person wants,
and what that person wanted.

 

What others said, as some went about their business,
isn’t known.
Growing along the ridge, the condition of his parade
can’t know.
Roger, sir, she meant it for only a little while. ROGER.
And when the ducks came squawking
back, one by one, you felt it was your responsibility.
The floral canopy dragged reproachfully, or so it seemed.
When lunch arrived you filled up on tea and goat cheese.

John Ashbery - Homecoming

Weather drips quietly through the skeins
in my diary. What surly elision is this?

 

Who faxed the folks news of my homecoming,
even unto the platform number? The majestic parlor car
slides neatly into its berth, the doors fly open,
and it’s Jean and Marcy and all the kids, waving pink plastic pinwheels,
chomping on popcorn. Ngarrrh. You know I adore ceremony,
even while refusing to stand on it, but this, this is too inane.
And the cold anonymity of the station takes over,
reins in the crowds that were sifting to the furthest exits. No one is here.
Now I know why I’ve always hated the tango, yet loved the intimacy
secreted in its curls. And for this to continue, we’ve got to
get together, renew old saws, let old grudges ride...

 

Later I’m posting this to you.
I just thought of you, you see, as indeed I do
several million times a day. I need your disapproval,
can’t live without your churlish ways.

John Ashbery - How To Continue

Oh there once was a woman

and she kept a shop

selling trinkets to tourists

not far from a dock

who came to see what life could be

far back on the island.

 

And it was always a party there

always different but very nice

New friends to give you advice

or fall in love with you which is nice

and each grew so perfectly from the other

it was a marvel of poetry

and irony

 

And in this unsafe quarter

much was scary and dirty

but no one seemed to mind

very much

the parties went on from house to house

There were friends and lovers galore

all around the store

There was moonshine in winter

and starshine in summer

and everybody was happy to have discovered

what they discovered

 

And then one day the ship sailed away

There were no more dreamers just sleepers

in heavy attitudes on the dock

moving as if they knew how

among the trinkets and the souvenirs

the random shops of modern furniture

and a gale came and said

it is time to take all of you away

from the tops of the trees to the little houses

on little paths so startled

 

And when it became time to go

they none of them would leave without the other

for they said we are all one here

and if one of us goes the other will not go

and the wind whispered it to the stars

the people all got up to go

and looked back on love

Ana Luísa Amaral - A Tragédia dos Fados (ou dos Factos)

Ah! destino frio de te falar
numa língua estranha, outra
que não a minha

 

Até as músicas que me dizem de ti
não podem ser na minha língua, que não faz sentido,
não me comovo se ouço chorar de amor na minha
língua, por saber que tu não podes
comover-te

 

E só por o saber não me comovo

 

Ah! destino frio de te lembrar
numa língua diferente, outra que não a minha,
revoltar-me por não ser enorme patriota
amar só momentos e pessoas iguais,

 

contribuir para o espaço
da minha língua, gastando livros, músicas, versos:
comovidos, um nacional produto (e eu?)
a comover-se

E.E. Cummings - I Will Wade Out

i will wade out
                        till my thighs are steeped in burning flowers
I will take the sun in my mouth
and leap into the ripe air
                                       Alive
                                                 with closed eyes
to dash against darkness
                                       in the sleeping curves of my body
Shall enter fingers of smooth mastery
with chasteness of sea-girls
                                            Will i complete the mystery
                                            of my flesh
I will rise
               After a thousand years
lipping
flowers
             And set my teeth in the silver of the moon

Cuarteta

Murieron otros, pero ello aconteció en el pasado, 
que es la estación (nadie lo ignora) más propicia a la muerte. 
¿Es posible que yo, súbdito de Yaqub Almansur, 
muera como tuvieron que morir las rosas y Aristóteles?

 

Del Diván de Almotásam el Magrebí

(siglo XII)

Maya Angelou - On The Pulse Of Morning

A Rock, A River, A Tree
Hosts to species long since departed,
Mark the mastodon.
The dinosaur, who left dry tokens
Of their sojourn here
On our planet floor,
Any broad alarm of their of their hastening doom
Is lost in the gloom of dust and ages.
But today, the Rock cries out to us, clearly, forcefully,
Come, you may stand upon my
Back and face your distant destiny,
But seek no haven in my shadow.
I will give you no hiding place down here.
You, created only a little lower than
The angels, have crouched too long in
The bruising darkness,
Have lain too long
Face down in ignorance.
Your mouths spelling words
Armed for slaughter.
The rock cries out today, you may stand on me,
But do not hide your face.
Across the wall of the world,
A river sings a beautiful song,
Come rest here by my side.
Each of you a bordered country,
Delicate and strangely made proud,
Yet thrusting perpetually under siege.
Your armed struggles for profit
Have left collars of waste upon
My shore, currents of debris upon my breast.
Yet, today I call you to my riverside,
If you will study war no more.
Come, clad in peace and I will sing the songs
The Creator gave to me when I
And the tree and stone were one.
Before cynicism was a bloody sear across your brow
And when you yet knew you still knew nothing.
The river sings and sings on.
There is a true yearning to respond to
The singing river and the wise rock.
So say the Asian, the Hispanic, the Jew,
The African and Native American, the Sioux,
The Catholic, the Muslim, the French, the Greek,
The Irish, the Rabbi, the Priest, the Sheikh,
The Gay, the Straight, the Preacher,
The privileged, the homeless, the teacher.
They hear. They all hear
The speaking of the tree.
Today, the first and last of every tree
Speaks to humankind. Come to me, here beside the river.
Plant yourself beside me, here beside the river.
Each of you, descendant of some passed on
Traveller, has been paid for.
You, who gave me my first name,
You Pawnee, Apache and Seneca,
You Cherokee Nation, who rested with me,
Then forced on bloody feet,
Left me to the employment of other seekers- 
Desperate for gain, starving for gold.
You, the Turk, the Swede, the German, the Scot...
You the Ashanti, the Yoruba, the Kru,
Bought, sold, stolen, arriving on a nightmare
Praying for a dream.
Here, root yourselves beside me.
I am the tree planted by the river,
Which will not be moved.
I, the rock, I the river, I the tree
I am yours- your passages have been paid.
Lift up your faces, you have a piercing need
For this bright morning dawning for you.
History, despite its wrenching pain,
Cannot be unlived, and if faced with courage,
Need not be lived again.
Lift up your eyes upon
The day breaking for you.
Give birth again
To the dream.
Women, children, men,
Take it into the palms of your hands.
Mold it into the shape of your most
Private need. Sculpt it into
The image of your most public self.
Lift up your hearts.
Each new hour holds new chances
For new beginnings.
Do not be wedded forever
To fear, yoked eternally
To brutishness.
The horizon leans forward,
Offering you space to place new steps of change.
Here, on the pulse of this fine day
You may have the courage
To look up and out upon me,
The rock, the river, the tree, your country.
No less to Midas than the mendicant.
No less to you now than the mastodon then.
Here on the pulse of this new day
You may have the grace to look up and out
And into your sister's eyes,
Into your brother's face, your country
And say simply
Very simply
With hope
Good morning.