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

luís soares

Blog do escritor Luís Soares

Carol Muske-Dukes - No Hands

He rode “no hands,” speeding
headlong down the hill near
our house, his arms extended,

held rigid away from his body,
our small daughter behind him 
on the bike in her yellow sunsuit,

bareheaded. She held on to him 
for her life. I watched them from 
above—helpless failed brake.

Far below us, a stop sign rose
like a child’s toy shield. He could
not stop, he would not. That hunger

for display overrode danger, illusions
of safety. Even death had less to do 
with it than the will’s eventual triumph

over stasis: how he’d finally fly free
and how she might accompany him,
as an audience travels with a performer,

an object of regard. Downward, fast— 
so what cannot stop holds on, holds on
in a mind flying away from itself, seeking

release from the soul speeding away, yet
staying close as breath, even at this distance.

Frank O'Hara - As Planned

After the first glass of vodka
you can accept just about anything
of life even your own mysteriousness
you think it is nice that a box
of matches is purple and brown and is called
La Petite and comes from Sweden
for they are words that you know and that
is all you know words not their feelings
or what they mean and you write because
you know them not because you understand them
because you don’t you are stupid and lazy
and will never be great but you do
what you know because what else is there?

Ocean Vuong - Almost Human

It’s been a long time since my body.
Unbearable, I put it down
on the earth the way my old man
rolled dice. It’s been a long time since
time. But I had weight back there. Had substance
& sinew, damage you could see
by looking between your hands & hearing
blood. It was called reading, they told me,
too late. But too late. I red. I made a killing
in language & was surrounded
by ghosts. I used my arsenal
of defunct verbs & broke
into a library of second chances,
the E.R. Where they bandaged
my head, even as the black words
kept seeping through,
like this. Back there, I couldn’t
get the boys to look at me
even in my best jean jacket.
It was 2006 or 1865 or .327.
What a time to be alive! they said,
this time louder, more assault rifles.
Did I tell you? I come from a people of sculptors
whose masterpiece was rubble. We
tried. Indecent, tongue-tied, bowl-cut & diabetic,
I had a feeling. The floorboards creaked
as I wept motionless by the rehab window.
If words, as they claimed, had no weight
in our world, why did we keep
sinking, Doctor—I mean
Lord—why did the water swallow
our almost human hands
as we sang? Like this.

Anne Sexton - The Ambition Bird

So it has come to this –
insomnia at 3:15 A.M.,
the clock tolling its engine
 
like a frog following
a sundial yet having an electric
seizure at the quarter hour.
 
The business of words keeps me awake.
I am drinking cocoa,
the warm brown mama.
 
I would like a simple life
yet all night I am laying
poems away in a long box.
 
It is my immortality box,
my lay-away plan,
my coffin.
 
All night dark wings
flopping in my heart.
Each an ambition bird.
 
The bird wants to be dropped
from a high place like Tallahatchie Bridge.
 
He wants to light a kitchen match
and immolate himself.
 
He wants to fly into the hand of Michelangelo
and come out painted on a ceiling.
 
He wants to pierce the hornet’s nest
and come out with a long godhead.
 
He wants to take bread and wine
and bring forth a man happily floating in the Caribbean.
 
He wants to be pressed out like a key
so he can unlock the Magi.
 
He wants to take leave among strangers
passing out bits of his heart like hors d’oeuvres.
 
He wants to die changing his clothes
and bolt for the sun like a diamond.
 
He wants, I want.
Dear God, wouldn’t it be
good enough just to drink cocoa?
 
I must get a new bird
and a new immortality box.
There is folly enough inside this one.

Shivanee Ramlochan - the night I fucked the border patrol agent

After
the small bomb of his orgasm
I stole his mother’s crucifix,
darted through the back doors.

I never saw the dogs.
Quick like Krishna’s gopis they swarmed me.
Pink tongues of threat and purebred musk.
Rosaries of saliva.
Jaws open like warm ovens for bread and fish.

I tried their father’s language on them

stay calm hold still
hold still stay there
don’t run stay calm
don’t panic I said
stay still calm
I said stay

When the ridgeback bitch rushed me,
I sank the gold christ in her eye,
felt her piss soak my sandals.
She buckled into the death,
I whimpered
easy easy now
no one has to get hurt.

Campbell McGrath - Nights on Planet Earth

Heaven was originally precisely that: the starry sky, dating back to the earliest Egyptian texts, which include magic spells that enable the soul to be sewn in the body of the great mother, Nut, literally "night," like the seed of a plant, which is also a jewel and a star. The Greek Elysian fields derive from the same celestial topography: the Egyptian "Field of Rushes," the eastern stars at dawn where the soul goes to be purified. That there is another, mirror world, a world of light, and that this world is simply the sky—and a step further, the breath of the sky, the weather, the very air—is a formative belief of great antiquity that has continued to the present day with the godhead becoming brightness itself: dios/theos (Greek); deus/divine/diana (Latin); devas (Sanskrit); daha (Arabic); day (English).
—Susan Brind Morrow, Wolves and Honey

1

Gravel paths on hillsides amid moon-drawn vineyards,
click of pearls upon a polished nightstand
soft as rainwater, self-minded stars, oboe music
distant as the grinding of icebergs against the hull
of the self and the soul in the darkness
chanting to the ecstatic chance of existence.
Deep is the water and long is the moonlight
inscribing addresses in quicksilver ink,
building the staircase a lover forever pauses upon.
Deep is the darkness and long is the night,
solid the water and liquid the light. How strange
that they arrive at all, nights on planet earth.

2

Sometimes, not often but repeatedly, the past invades my dreams in the form of a familiar neighborhood I can no longer locate,
a warren of streets lined with dark cafés and unforgettable bars, a place where I can sing by heart every song on every jukebox,
a city that feels the way the skin of an octopus looks pulse-changing from color to color, laminar and fluid and electric,
a city of shadow-draped churches, of busses on dim avenues, or riverlights, or canyonlands, but always a city, and wonderful, and lost.
Sometimes it resembles Amsterdam, students from the ballet school like fanciful gazelles shooting pool in pink tights and soft, shapeless sweaters,
or Madrid at 4AM, arguing the 18th Brumaire with angry Marxists, or Manhattan when the snowfall crowns every trash-can king of its Bowery stoop,
or Chicago, or Dublin, or some ideal city of the imagination, as in a movie you can neither remember entirely nor completely forget,
barracuda-faced men drinking sake like yakuza in a Harukami novel, women sipping champagne or arrack, the rattle of beaded curtains in the back,
the necklaces of Christmas lights reflected in raindrops on windows, the taste of peanuts and their shells crushed to powder underfoot,
always real, always elusive, always a city, and wonderful, and lost. All night I wander alone, searching in vain for the irretrievable.

3

In the night I will drink from a cup of ashes and yellow paint.
In the night I will gossip with the clouds and grow strong.
In the night I will cross rooftops to watch the sea tremble in a dream.
In the night I will assemble my army of golden carpenter ants.
In the night I will walk the towpath among satellites and cosmic dust.
In the night I will cry to the roots of potted plants in empty offices.
In the night I will gather the feathers of pigeons in a honey jar.
In the night I will become an infant before your flag.

Wallace Stevens - The Gray Room

Although you sit in a room that is gray, 
Except for the silver 
Of the straw-paper, 
And pick 
At your pale white gown; 
Or lift one of the green beads 
Of your necklace, 
To let it fall; 
Or gaze at your green fan 
Printed with the red branches of a red willow; 
Or, with one finger, 
Move the leaf in the bowl-- 
The leaf that has fallen from the branches of the forsythia 
Beside you... 
What is all this? 
I know how furiously your heart is beating.

June Jordan - These Poems

These poems
they are things that I do
in the dark
reaching for you
whoever you are
and
are you ready?

These words
they are stones in the water
running away

These skeletal lines
they are desperate arms for my longing and love.

I am a stranger
learning to worship the strangers
around me

whoever you are
whoever I may become.

Edward Hirsch - Early Sunday Morning

I used to mock my father and his chums 
for getting up early on Sunday morning 
and drinking coffee at a local spot 
but now I’m one of those chumps.

No one cares about my old humiliations 
but they go on dragging through my sleep 
like a string of empty tin cans rattling 
behind an abandoned car.

It’s like this: just when you think 
you have forgotten that red-haired girl 
who left you stranded in a parking lot 
forty years ago, you wake up

early enough to see her disappearing 
around the corner of your dream 
on someone else’s motorcycle 
roaring onto the highway at sunrise.

And so now I’m sitting in a dimly lit 
café full of early morning risers 
where the windows are covered with soot 
and the coffee is warm and bitter.

James Tate - Fuck the Astronauts

I

Eventually we must combine nightmares
an angel smoking a cigarette on the steps
of the last national bank, said to me.
I put her out with my thumb. I don’t need that
cheap talk I’ve got my own problems.
It was sad, exciting, and horrible.
It was exciting, horrible, and sad.
It was horrible, sad, and exciting.
It was inviting, mad, and deplorable.
It was adorable, glad, and enticing.
Eventually we must smoke a thumb
cheap talk I’ve got my own angel
on the steps of the problems the bank
said to me I don’t need that.
I will take this one window
with its sooty maps and scratches
so that my dreams will remember
one another and so that my eyes will not
become blinded by the new world.


II

The flames don’t dance or slither.
They have painted the room green.
Beautiful and naked, the wives
are sleeping before the fire.
Now it is out. The men have
returned to the shacks,
slaved creatures from the forest
floor across their white
stationwagons. That just about
does it, says the other,
dumping her bucket
over her head. Well, I guess
we got everything, says one,
feeling around in the mud,
as if for a child.
Now they remember they want
that mud, who can’t remember
what they got up for.
They parcel it out: when
they are drunk enough
they go into town with
a bucket of mud, saying
we can slice it up into
windmills like a bloated cow. 
Later, they paint the insides
of the shack black,
and sit sucking eggs all night,
they want something real, useful,
but there isn’t anything.


III

I will engineer the sunrise
they have disassembled our shadows
our echoes are erased from the walls
your nipples are the skeletons of olives
your nipples are an oriental delight
your nipples blow away like cigarette papers
your nipples are the mouths of mutes
so I am not here any longer
skein of lightning
memory’s dark ink in your last smile
where the stars have swallowed their train schedule
where the stars have drowned in their dark petticoats
like a sock of hamburger
receiving the lightning
into his clitoris
red on red the prisoner
confesses his waltz
through the corkscrew lightning
nevermind the lightning
in your teeth let’s waltz
I am the hashish pinball machine
that rapes a piano.