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luís soares

Blog do escritor Luís Soares

David Mourão-Ferreira - E Por Vezes

E por vezes as noites duram meses 
E por vezes os meses oceanos 
E por vezes os braços que apertamos 
nunca mais são os mesmos   E por vezes 

encontramos de nós em poucos meses 
o que a noite nos fez em muitos anos 
E por vezes fingimos que lembramos 
E por vezes lembramos que por vezes 

ao tomarmos o gosto aos oceanos 
só o sarro das noites   não dos meses 
lá no fundo dos copos encontramos 

E por vezes sorrimos ou choramos 
E por vezes por vezes ah por vezes 
num segundo se evolam tantos anos 

Mark Strand - Coming To This

We have done what we wanted.
We have discarded dreams, preferring the heavy industry
of each other, and we have welcomed grief
and called ruin the impossible habit to break.

 

And now we are here.
The dinner is ready and we cannot eat.
The meat sits in the white lake of its dish.
The wine waits.

 

Coming to this
has its rewards: nothing is promised, nothing is taken away.
We have no heart or saving grace,
no place to go, no reason to remain.

John Ashbery - Ignorance of the Law Is No Excuse

We were warned about spiders, and the occasional famine.
We drove downtown to see our neighbors. None of them were home.
We nestled in yards the municipality had created,
reminisced about other, different places—
but were they? Hadn’t we known it all before?
 
In vineyards where the bee’s hymn drowns the monotony,
we slept for peace, joining in the great run.
He came up to me.
It was all as it had been,
except for the weight of the present,
that scuttled the pact we made with heaven.
In truth there was no cause for rejoicing,
nor need to turn around, either.
We were lost just by standing,
listening to the hum of wires overhead.
 
We mourned that meritocracy which, wildly vibrant,
had kept food on the table and milk in the glass.
In skid-row, slapdash style
we walked back to the original rock crystal he had become,
all concern, all fears for us.
We went down gently
to the bottom-most step. There you can grieve and breathe,
rinse your possessions in the chilly spring.
Only beware the bears and wolves that frequent it
and the shadow that comes when you expect dawn.

Frank Bidart - Self-Portrait, 1969

He's still young—; thirty, but looks younger—

or does he? . . . In the eyes and cheeks, tonight,

turning in the mirror, he saw his mother,—

puffy; angry; bewildered . . . Many nights

now, when he stares there, he gets angry:—

something unfulfilled there, something dead

to what he once thought he surely could be—

Now, just the glamour of habits . . .

                                                                  Once, instead,

he thought insight would remake him, he'd reach

—what? The thrill, the exhilaration

unravelling disaster, that seemed to teach

necessary knowledge . . . became just jargon.

 

Sick of being decent, he craves another

crash. What reaches him except disaster?

Lawrence Joseph - It's Not Me Shouting At No One

Before dawn, on the street again,
beneath sky that washes me
with ice, smoke, metal.
I don't want to think
the bullet pierced my shoulder,
the junkie's rotten teeth
laughed, his yellow hair froze.
I'm careful: 1 smoke
Turkish tobacco cigarette butts,
1 drink a lot to piss a lot,
I fry the pig in its own fat,
eat the knuckles, brain, and stomach;
I don't eat the eyes!
Always four smokestacks
burning bones, somewhere
tears that won't stop,
everywhere blood becomes
flesh that wants to say something.
It's not me shouting at no one
in Cadillac Square: it's God
roaring inside me, afraid
to be alone.

Lawrence Joseph - So Where Are We?

So where were we? The fiery
avalanche headed right at us—falling,

 

flailing bodies in midair—
the neighborhood under thick gray powder—

 

on every screen. I don’t know
where you are, I don’t know what

 

I’m going to do, I heard a man say;
the man who had spoken was myself.

 

What year? Which Southwest Asian war?
Smoke from infants’ brains

 

on fire from the phosphorus
hours after they’re killed, killers

 

reveling in the horror. The more obscene
the better. The point at which

 

a hundred thousand massacred
is just a detail. Asset and credit bubbles

 

about to burst. Too much consciousness
of too much at once, a tangle of tenses

 

and parallel thoughts, a series of feelings
overlapping a sudden sensation

 

felt and known, those chains of small facts
repeated endlessly, in the depths

 

of silent time. So where are we?
My ear turns, like an animal’s. I listen.

 

Like it or not, a digital you is out there.
Half of that city’s buildings aren’t there.

 

Who was there when something was, and a witness
to it? The rich boy general conducts the Pakistani

 

heroin trade on a satellite phone from his cave.
On the top floor of the Federal Reserve

 

in an office looking onto Liberty
at the South Tower’s onetime space,

 

the Secretary of the Treasury concedes
they got killed in terms of perceptions.

 

Ten blocks away the Church of the Transfiguration,
in the back a Byzantine Madonna—

 

there is a God, a God who fits the drama
in a very particular sense. What you said—

 

the memory of a memory of a remembered
memory, the color of a memory, violet and black.

 

The lunar eclipse on the winter solstice,
the moon a red and black and copper hue.

 

The streets, the harbor, the light, the sky.
The blue and cloudless intense and blue morning sky.

Jameson Fitzpatrick - Fuck the Police

I did once.
One of them,
in his car.
Before I knew
better, so before
I could write
ACAB in snow
on the hood
of a parked
cruiser. OK so
we didn’t fuck,
not really, but
we came. He
shot like a
water cannon.
He looked like
a cop: square
-jawed, soft
-bellied. He
was a state
trooper, some
-body’s husband.
OK it was
his wife’s car.
It was the
year before the
year of all
the shootings, so
a year of
shootings I just
didn’t hear
about. OK so
I should have
known better,
he was married,
that was the
draw, not the
cop thing but
maybe I’m
lying to myself.
Every faggot
adores a fascist
etc. OK so
it was Dana
who wrote ACAB
on the cruiser,
in the snow.
OK so he
still texts me.
Once a week,
more. Haven’t
seen him in
four years, still
the one-way
chain of hey
hi hello yo
—OK so yes
a few times
he’s caught me
cock-handed and
I’ve sent a
pic. He wants
to know when
we can meet
again but the
answer is never
or, after abolition.
And even then.
I know a
woman, a friend
of a friend,
who dates a
cop and she
doms him, puts
her hand in
him and calls
it subversion.
We judge her
for it, for
the dating not
the fisting but
what does he
give up, when
he lets his
hands be the
state’s hands.
What did I
when I let
them touch me
and got off.

Jameson Fitzpatrick - I’ll Never Be Beautiful the Way Certain

I’ll never be beautiful
the way certain men are beautiful:
the tall boy at the protest everyone wants a picture of,
who is the tall boy in all the pictures later.
But I prefer imperfect men: short
like me, or big-toothed, with a belly.
Having sex with too beautiful a man makes me
crazier than I am already
when I make myself ugly willing
otherwise: nails at my skin till
it’s ruined, a field picked of its flowers.
Not the least beautiful thing.
But to say I’m more beautiful than some
would be proving something,
which the beautiful people I speak of never do.
They are their own evidence.  
In college, I used to talk about beauty in therapy
in terms of Occupy Wall Street, as an inequality:
there was the 1 percent and there was the rest of us.
Beauty was easy the way money was:
not, and somehow all the more difficult
for my relative beauty and relative wealth.
I was stupid in college.
What I saw at Zuccotti were people sure
of their own importance, which they were, sure,
but—they were important.
Now I don’t go to the protest
to feel beautiful, I go because putting my body there—
even if I suspect my body there is unimportant—
feels more correct than the alternative.
More right. Not right dancing the other night,
with the mustachioed man
hard in hand already
when he turned me around and I knew
he wanted to fuck me,
which ruined it, the idea alone.
I’ll never be beautiful the way certain
women are: my friends,
and women I see on the train on their way
somewhere, women who might take a man
when they want, women who can.
I could have been a good woman
if I could have been a girl.
But then beauty might have been
a bigger problem, as men make it for women,
unless still I’d have been better at it,
performed better
under that set of expectations.
I’ll never be a good man.
I’ll never be as beautiful
as the Corpse Flower even,
the one in bloom in the Bronx
people flock to take pictures of—
I’m one of them, though I am not one-half
of one of the beautiful straight couples
or one of the beautiful age-appropriate gay couples
or the beautiful young lesbian couple
who are never not holding hands.
I’m not there alone, to be fair.
I’m with a man who loves me
—but not how I want it,
not the never-not-holding-hands way—
a man whose most beautiful years are behind him.
His Most Beautiful was more than mine,
which might also be behind me,
though what is behind me is of no use
to anyone, though men like to touch it
and tell me what a shame it is
not to be able to get in.
If just one thing about me
I will not change
were different—taller, more man,
more woman, a bottom—
my body could be beautiful, I think,
as a painter stands before their work
searching for the source
of their dissatisfaction.
I know better than to believe
fixing my face would fix anything else,
but— Let me return to the analogy of money:
it never belongs to you,
so there’s solace in spending it,
as my sadness might be softened
looking down at my long, long legs.

John Ashbery - But What Is the Reader to Make of This?

A lake of pain, an absence
Leading to a flowering sea? Give it a quarter-turn
And watch the centuries begin to collapse
Through each other, like floors in a burning building,
Until we get to this afternoon:

Those delicious few words spread around like jam
Don't matter, nor does the shadow.
We have lived blasphemously in history
And nothing has hurt us or can.
But beware of the monstrous tenderness, for out of it
The same blunt archives loom. Facts seize hold of the web
And leave it ash. Still, it is the personal,
Interior life that gives us something to think about.
The rest is only drama.

Meanwhile the combinations of every extendable circumstance
In our lives continue to blow against it like new leaves
At the edge of a forest a battle rages in and out of
For a whole day. It's not the background, we're the background,
On the outside looking out. The surprises history has
For us are nothing compared to the shock we get
From each other, though time still wears
The colors of meanness and melancholy, and the general life
Is still many sizes too big, yet
Has style, woven of things that never happened
With those that did, so that a mood survives
Where life and death never could. Make it sweet again!