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luís soares

Blog do escritor Luís Soares

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.

Lloyd Schwartz - Song

rain on the lake
room at the lodge
alone in a room
in the lazy light

loons on the lake
geese in the air
moose in the woods
aware    awake

a cry dislodged
from the musty woods
the gamy musk
of the one aroused

the roaming moose
the rooms lit up
the woods awake
in the loony light

the moon dislodged
the lake aflame
the Muse amazed
amused     aroused

Edward Hirsch - Branch Library

I wish I could find that skinny, long-beaked boy 
who perched in the branches of the old branch library. 

He spent the Sabbath flying between the wobbly stacks 
and the flimsy wooden tables on the second floor,   

pecking at nuts, nesting in broken spines, scratching 
notes under his own corner patch of sky. 

I'd give anything to find that birdy boy again 
bursting out into the dusky blue afternoon 

with his satchel of scrawls and scribbles, 
radiating heat, singing with joy.

Edward Hirsch - I Was Never Able To Pray

Wheel me down to the shore
where the lighthouse was abandoned
and the moon tolls in the rafters.

Let me hear the wind paging through the trees
and see the stars flaring out, one by one,
like the forgotten faces of the dead.

I was never able to pray,
but let me inscribe my name
in the book of waves

and then stare into the dome
of a sky that never ends
and see my voice sail into the night.

Tracy K. Smith - Wade in the Water

                 for the Geechee Gullah Ring Shouters

 

One of the women greeted me.

I love you, she said. She didn't

Know me, but I believed her,

And a terrible new ache

Rolled over in my chest,

Like in a room where the drapes

Have been swept back. I love you,

I love you, as she continued

Down the hall past other strangers,

Each feeling pierced suddenly

By pillars of heavy light.

I love you, throughout

The performance, in every

Handclap, every stomp.

I love you in the rusted iron

Chains someone was made

To drag until love let them be

Unclasped and left empty

In the center of the ring.

I love you in the water

Where they pretended to wade,

Singing that old blood-deep song

That dragged us to those banks

And cast us in. I love you,

The angles of it scraping at

Each throat, shouldering past

The swirling dust motes

In those beams of light

That whatever we now knew

We could let ourselves feel, knew

To climb. O Woods—O Dogs—                       

O Tree—O Gun—O Girl, run

O Miraculous Many Gone—

O Lord—O Lord—O Lord—

Is this love the trouble you promised?

Kevin Killian - Pickpocket

Last night whistling I passed

by their alley, saw them in a

sidelong blink of light from

traffic, a speeding car, then

I went home. Dreamed of

gold skies, black money.  I

felt so stupid, to talk

about them feels stupid.  I’m

the sullen red Sun.

 

Bernadette leans from tenement

windows, sailors keep searching

world after world for

Bernadette, and her arms

are black, her outstretched

proffered palms all milky.

From them coins drop into

Pickpocket’s pockets freely.

 

Pickpocket’s face is pocked, his

arms are pocked.  I threw

his face in a lake to make it

ripple, he smokes a

cigar to an orange hot hole in

his face, a glow.  At night

the Sun’s a kid brought behind

the woodshed and abased.

Eileen Myles - Tasha

She prefers
my phone &

 

using my
computer
w out the burden
of her life
last night
I described
it open
a circle
she kisses
my knee
its life
that is
my name
they thought
she had
a lot
I think
it’s enough
I mean
it’s astonishing
if I had (his)
I could
feel everything
but as it is
I know
what it is
I love your
lips.

Mary Jean Chan - The Window

after Marie Howe

 

Once in a lifetime, you will gesture

at an open window, tell the one who

detests the queerness in you that dead

daughters do not disappoint, free your

sore knees from inching towards a kind
of reprieve, declare yourself genderless

as hawk or sparrow: an encumbered body

let loose from its cage. You will refuse your

mother’s rage, her spit, her tongue heavy
like the heaviest of stones. Your mother’s

anger is like the sun, which is like love,
which is the easiest thing – even on the

hardest of days. You will linger, knowing
that this standing before an open window

is what the living do, that they sometimes
reconsider at the slightest touch of grace.

Hart Crane - Chaplinesque

We make our meek adjustments,

Contented with such random consolations

As the wind deposits

In slithered and too ample pockets.

 

For we can still love the world, who find

A famished kitten on the step, and know

Recesses for it from the fury of the street,

Or warm torn elbow coverts.

 

We will sidestep, and to the final smirk

Dally the doom of that inevitable thumb

That slowly chafes its puckered index toward us,

Facing the dull squint with what innocence

And what surprise!

 

And yet these fine collapses are not lies

More than the pirouettes of any pliant cane;

Our obsequies are, in a way, no enterprise.

We can evade you, and all else but the heart:

What blame to us if the heart live on.

 

The game enforces smirks; but we have seen

The moon in lonely alleys make

A grail of laughter of an empty ash can,

And through all sound of gaiety and quest

Have heard a kitten in the wilderness.