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luís soares

Blog do escritor Luís Soares

Diane Di Prima - Song for Spring Equinox

It is the first day of spring, the children are singing
(they are supposed to be sleeping) the clock is ticking
the cats are waiting for supper, one of them pregnant
kittens to herald the spring, nothing is blooming
nothing seems to bloom much around farms, just hayfields and corn
farms are too pragmatic, I look at ads
for hydrangea bushes, which I hate they remind me of brooklyn

 

for chinese wisteria vines, which I can’t picture
but they sound exotic and mysterious
a kind of blue purple, I decide I’ll get some

 

will I be disappointed, will they be yellow?
will I hate the Shetland pony we are buying
will we run out of wholewheat flour this week
before a new supply drives up from the city?

 

oh, it is very like being a pioneer,
but then everything is in this country, and in the country
especially. it was like being a pioneer on 5th street, too
and houston street, and amsterdam avenue
and in brooklyn, under the streetlights growing up
rollerskating at dusk with stickball games in the street
was the most pioneery of all,

 

it is slightly boring,
it tastes a lot of the times crossword puzzle
and ordering things thru the mail, which never come
or turn out wrong, or come the wrong color (wisteria)

 

I can’t blame Alan for planning to go to India
to free his kundalini, so that his ears peel
or something dreadful happens to his physique
we are built for the exotic, we americans, this landscape leaves us
as open as a piece of chocolate cream pie 

Rickey Laurentiis - Swing Low

We aren’t the solid men.

       We bend like the number seven. 

Dig at corners, eat cobwebs, we

      are barefoot and bare-legged.

      We hang like leaves in autumn.

 

We aren’t the stolid men.

      We scribble in familiar ink

about sunfalls and night. We

      see the white in the sky, and sigh.

      We lie with penciled grins.

 

We aren’t the men, any men.

      We rip at the neck and wonder why 

while rattlers roll in. Bent 

      as a number, crooked, sundered,

      we aren’t the idle lightning 

 

if black thunder.

Tommy Pico - from 'Junk'

Wherever we go, needs feed and I find it harder and harder to

believe benevolence is the thing Thousands of Yazidi girls

 

missing and plastic fills the ocean’s mouth and the cursive of

yr name still occupies the canopy of my throat Fuel, the under-

 

pinning What fires your gd engine Rigor, mortis Cold as

unmoving or unmoved The opposite of music Warm in the

 

cold universe Molten, forming A rock becoming magma

becoming lava becoming land Land, the trauma of lava Lava

 

the lamp of the ancestors and later a cheeky find in the Junk

shop and rising in our living room Livin groom Just bc nothing

 

cares doesn’t mean it lacks meaning What’s the point of

curiosity but a train rolling past the spot where the Donner

 

Party feasted n then go on a four hour Wikipedia downward

spiral I’m the closest thing to a mime parade I whisper, home

 

late tiptoeing down the creaky hallway tryin not to wake my

roommates Nice chicken parm, sluts, I say to my fingers at

 

lunch Dissociation is evacuating from the inside I just know

we’ll have a good time Junk: a relief map of yr traumas Dipping

 

yr whole arm into the bin of sunflower seeds I’m in my Shonda

Rhimes Year of Yes n so far it’s pretty freak Gave a beej 2 a

 

logger in town for a football game at his hostel (almost wrote

hostile) the old-fashioned way, as in I met him at a bar after

 

lingering eye contact No apps Told him I was writing this poem

Flush with success after only eating half the cheeseburger for

 

dinner For the first time in my life it wasn’t no burger or four

burgers Full on Rocky situation He said he was flattered every

 

time his gf’s gay friends grabbed his beer can Bacon-wrapped-

date-flavored Doritos The artifice of order Predictability,

 

measured time, present wrapping Order, Order, Pockets of

Order Or, Durham I dumped a boy from Raleigh today The

 

baton of Junk The dance whirls Whorls War Tortle Cut to mall

dressing room thousand outfits montage Ignorance as a tool to

 

revive the feeling of doing something new Junk has to be the

poem of our time Pointless accumulation Clinging to a million

 

denials Why do you need an assault rifle? What if radioactive

bears Buying in bulk Afraid of forgetting that night in 2007

 

when Chantal shouted jamiroquai is holding this party

together!!!! Junk is the garbage ppl keep Didn’t they tell you

 

I’m a meteorologist but for people What’s that called? Psychic?

Psychic side chick In maths, “arbitrary” is a thing w/o specific

 

value Quite the Junkery The world, all of its rock formations

and space missions and presidents and religious phobias and

 

fashions fossils All of it has always seemed so arbitrary to me,

bc to survive this long into an occupation feels sometimes so

 

arbitrary to be And then sometimes so divine Who else could

survive but my line It’s true, your Junk won’t save you from a

 

tsunami, but I’m descended from a group whose culture history

language gods cosmology calendar stories government gait was

 

capital “O” Obliterated I’ll stop writing this when it stops hap-

pening So when I “get” anything it’s hard to let go Resisting

 

death for generations, I want to make the opposite of death No

excuse for a vanilla bean tapioca ball attitude Ever bought a

 

McFlurry n shouted yr dead inside but yew were pointing a

finger at yrself and, horrified, yew screamed Ran home but half-

 

way home yew forgot what yew were doing n bought a pair of

sneaker boots at DSW or just me? I’m building the archive of a

 

life that shouldn’t exist Wristband from that gay club in

Cartagena where we danced w/ the self-proclaimed Perez

 

Hilton of Colombia Every bar frankly should have tostones

smellin up the grill Is a poem abt Junk itself merely an accum-

 

ulation of doomsday and birth certificates If part of Junk is

letting go, partly Junk is letting go of you Junk finds a new boo

 

                                                          *

 

“Control” by Janet Jackson is one of the greatest songs in the

nation Warm hearts sparkle in the colonial afternoon Control

 

is a reaction to something smacking that cracks the future

w/ no precedent We call this a paradigm shift — say we were

 

totally blindsided Janet wants to take control from her parents

From the loss of a first love Control of the narrative Janet

 

wants to Black Cat in boxy military garb Janet wants to show

you her midriff and introduce J. Lo to the general public in

 

a few albums Shock is a kind of collision A booming confusion

The shudder and the shot are almost indistinguishable Shock

 

has its electric correlate, but is also itself by what surrounds

the event: a quiet dinner party vs sweaty racing thoughts And

 

what do you make of it My friend said he found out his crush

graduated college in 2014 n hates himself And I’m like wait

 

til yr my age thinkin, I totally still look like I’m in my 20s Then

it turns out the dude you were makin out with was born the

 

year Janet, the album, came out What the literal fudge An hour

ago you were singing “That’s the Way Love Goes” at karaoke

 

In my defense, taller dudes always look older How to negotiate

control and the lack of control When yr slap hand gets itchy OK

 

whenever anybody dumps you just think of them as a gif of a

white dude wilding out to Wu Tang in a cardigan then suddenly

 

falling into the Grand Canyon — Dating is all the way dumb I

don’t know what, if any of this, will reach yr peepers but I want

 

to ask you this (and I am guilty of making ppl wade thru some

bullshit b4 getting to my point): What do you turn to when

 

breath dashes from yr body like it’s on the lamb? Cindy Craw-

ford says lighting is everything Take a selfie from the sun-

 

blown window Even supermodels say “lighting” It’s comforting!

But there’s also value in exposing yr engine #BadSelfie Archaic

 

but also so fresh: self-expression Trust is a thing that guides

you thru a feed The voice like a handshake I’m in front of you

 

There is paper and a trade-off This is ancient, like pixel drift

What’s under the hood of irritation We call complication a knot

 

A knotted life that doesn’t get to be undone Who here has a

clear, linear rope? Denial! You have to love yr knots You have

 

to shout them out Curate if need be Janet turns her knots into

songs Sonic beauty (tho fuck beauty) Knot is the response A

 

manager is like a politician Not the minutiae but the orchest-

ration The dark forest It’s hard not to inhale The cave is where

 

to turn when you’ve no other recourse This isn’t a discussion

This isn’t a mandate (lol man date) This isn’t an answer This is

 

a lineage: Lascaux, Keith Haring, Rihanna How do you draw

breath? In and down Heel to crown Janet says I’m in control

 

and ends Don’t make me lose it As if she knows what’s to come.

The battle of control is in learning to make, and giving it up

Anne Boyer - Not Writing

When I am not writing I am not writing a novel called 1994  about a young

woman  in  an  office park  in a  provincial town who has a job  cutting  and

pasting time. I am not writing a novel called Nero about the world's richest

art star in space.  I am not writing  a book  called Kansas City Spleen.  I am

not writing a sequel to Kansas City Spleen called Bitch's Maldoror. I am not

writing  a  book of  political  philosophy called Questions for Poets. I am not

writing a scandalous memoir.  I am not writing a pathetic memoir. I am not

writing  a  memoir  about  poetry  or  love.  I am not writing a memoir about

poverty,  debt  collection,  or  bankruptcy.  I   am  not  writing   about family

court.  I am not writing a memoir because memoirs are for property owners

and not  writing a memoir about  prohibitions of memoirs.

 

When  I am not writing a memoir  I am also not writing any kind of  poetry,

not  prose  poems  contemporary   or  otherwise,  not  poems made  of frag-

ments,  not tightened and  compressed poems, not loosened and  conversa-

tional poems, not conceptual  poems, not virtuosic poems employing many

different  types of  euphonious devices, not poems with epiphanies and not

poems  without,  not  documentary  poems about recent political moments,

not  poems  heavy with allusions to critical theory and popular song.

 

I am not writing "Leaving the Atocha Station" by Anne Boyer and certain-

ly  not  writing  "Nadja"  by  Anne Boyer though would like to write "Debt"

by  Anne Boyer  though  am  not  writing  also  "The  German Ideology" by

Anne  Boyer  and not writing a screenplay called "Sparticists."

 

I am not writing an account of myself more miserable than Rousseau.

I am not writing an account of myself more innocent than Blake.

 

I am not writing epic poetry although I like what Milton said about lyric

poets drinking wine while epic poets should drink water from a  wooden

bowl. I would like to drink wine from a wooden  bowl  or to drink  water

from an emptied bottle of wine.

 

I am not writing a book about shopping, which is a woman shopping.

I am not  writing  accounts  of  dreams,  not  my own or anyone else's.

I am not writing historical re-enactments of any durational literature.

 

I am not writing anything that anyone  has requested of me or is  waiting

on,  not  a  poetics  essay  or any other sort of essay, not a  roundtable re-

sponse, not interview responses, not writing prompts for younger writers,

not my thoughts about critical theory or popular songs.

 

I am not writing a new constitution for the republic of no history.

I am not writing a will or a medical report.

 

I am  not  writing  Facebook status updates. I am not writing thank-you

notes or apologies. I am not writing conference papers. I am not writing

book reviews. I am not writing blurbs.

 

I  am not writing  about contemporary  art. I am  not writing  accounts of

my travels.  I am  not writing  reviews for  The New Inquiry and not writ-

ing pieces for Triple Canopy and not writing anything for Fence. I am not

writing a  daily  accounting  of my reading, activities, and ideas.   I am not

writing  science  fiction  novels  about  the  problem  of  the idea of the au-

tonomy  of  art  and  science  fiction  novels about the problem of a society

with  only  one  law  which  is  consent.  I am  not  writing stories based on

 

Nathaniel Hawthorne's unwritten story ideas. I am not writing online dat-

ing profiles.  I am not writing anonymous communiqués.  I am not writing

textbooks.

 

I am not writing a history of these times or of past times or of any future

times and not even the history of these visions which are with me all day

and all of the night.

Mirren reads Tennyson for Colbert

The legendary dramatic actress indulges our host with a reading of lines from the poem 'Ulysses' by Alfred Lord Tennyson.

 

It little profits that an idle king, 

By this still hearth, among these barren crags, 

Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and dole 

Unequal laws unto a savage race, 

That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me. 

I cannot rest from travel: I will drink 

Life to the lees: All times I have enjoy'd 

Greatly, have suffer'd greatly, both with those 

That loved me, and alone, on shore, and when 

Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hyades 

Vext the dim sea: I am become a name; 

For always roaming with a hungry heart 

Much have I seen and known; cities of men 

And manners, climates, councils, governments, 

Myself not least, but honour'd of them all; 

And drunk delight of battle with my peers, 

Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy. 

I am a part of all that I have met; 

Yet all experience is an arch wherethro' 

Gleams that untravell'd world whose margin fades 

For ever and forever when I move. 

How dull it is to pause, to make an end, 

To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use! 

As tho' to breathe were life! Life piled on life 

Were all too little, and of one to me 

Little remains: but every hour is saved 

From that eternal silence, something more, 

A bringer of new things; and vile it were 

For some three suns to store and hoard myself, 

And this gray spirit yearning in desire 

To follow knowledge like a sinking star, 

Beyond the utmost bound of human thought. 

 

         This is my son, mine own Telemachus, 

To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle,— 

Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil 

This labour, by slow prudence to make mild 

A rugged people, and thro' soft degrees 

Subdue them to the useful and the good. 

Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere 

Of common duties, decent not to fail 

In offices of tenderness, and pay 

Meet adoration to my household gods, 

When I am gone. He works his work, I mine. 

 

         There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail: 

There gloom the dark, broad seas. My mariners, 

Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and thought with me— 

That ever with a frolic welcome took 

The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed 

Free hearts, free foreheads—you and I are old; 

Old age hath yet his honour and his toil; 

Death closes all: but something ere the end, 

Some work of noble note, may yet be done, 

Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods. 

The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks: 

The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep 

Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends, 

'T is not too late to seek a newer world. 

Push off, and sitting well in order smite 

The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds 

To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths 

Of all the western stars, until I die. 

It may be that the gulfs will wash us down: 

It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, 

And see the great Achilles, whom we knew. 

Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho' 

We are not now that strength which in old days 

Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are; 

One equal temper of heroic hearts, 

Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will 

To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

Em Creta, Com O Minotauro

I

 

Nascido em Portugal, de pais portugueses,
e pai de brasileiros no Brasil,
serei talvez norte-americano quando lá estiver.
Coleccionarei nacionalidades como camisas se despem,
se usam e se deitam fora, com todo o respeito
necessário à roupa que se veste e que prestou serviço.
Eu sou eu mesmo a minha pátria. A pátria
de que escrevo é a língua em que por acaso de gerações
nasci. E a do que faço e de que vivo é esta
raiva que tenho de pouca humanidade neste mundo
quando não acredito em outro, e só outro quereria que
este mesmo fosse. Mas, se um dia me esquecer de tudo,
espero envelhecer
tomando café em Creta
com o Minotauro,
sob o olhar de deuses sem vergonha.

II

O Minotauro compreender-me-á.
Tem cornos, como os sábios e os inimigos da vida.
É metade boi e metade homem, como todos os homens.
Violava e devorava virgens, como todas as bestas.
Filho de Pasifaë, foi irmão de um verso de Racine,
que Valéry, o cretino, achava um dos mais belos da "langue".
Irmão também de Ariadne, embrulharam-no num novelo de que se lixou.
Teseu, o herói, e, como todos os gregos heróicos, um filho da puta,
riu-lhe no focinho respeitável.
O Minotauro compreender-me-á, tomará café comigo, enquanto
o sol serenamente desce sobre o mar, e as sombras,
cheias de ninfas e de efebos desempregados,
se cerrarão dulcíssimas nas chávenas,
como o açúcar que mexeremos com o dedo sujo
de investigar as origens da vida.

III

É aí que eu quero reencontrar-me de ter deixado
a vida pelo mundo em pedaços repartida, como dizia
aquele pobre diabo que o Minotauro não leu, porque,
como toda a gente, não sabe português.
Também eu não sei grego, segundo as mais seguras informações.
Conversaremos em volapuque, já
que nenhum de nós o sabe. O Minotauro
não falava grego, não era grego, viveu antes da Grécia,
de toda esta merda douta que nos cobre há séculos,
cagada pelos nossos escravos, ou por nós quando somos
os escravos de outros. Ao café,
diremos um ao outro as nossas mágoas.

IV

Com pátrias nos compram e nos vendem, à falta
de pátrias que se vendam suficientemente caras para haver vergonha
de não pertencer a elas. Nem eu, nem o Minotauro,
teremos nenhuma pátria. Apenas o café,
aromático e bem forte, não da Arábia ou do Brasil,
da Fedecam, ou de Angola, ou parte alguma. Mas café
contudo e que eu, com filial ternura,
verei escorrer-lhe do queixo de boi
até aos joelhos de homem que não sabe
de quem herdou, se do pai, se da mãe,
os cornos retorcidos que lhe ornam a
nobre fronte anterior a Atenas, e, quem sabe,
à Palestina, e outros lugares turísticos,
imensamente patrióticos.

V

Em Creta, com o Minotauro,
sem versos e sem vida,
sem pátrias e sem espírito,
sem nada, nem ninguém,
que não o dedo sujo,
hei-de tomar em paz o meu café.

Adrienne Rich - Planetarium

              Thinking of Caroline Herschel (1750—1848)
              astronomer, sister of William; and others.

 

A woman in the shape of a monster   

a monster in the shape of a woman   

the skies are full of them

 

a woman      ‘in the snow

among the Clocks and instruments   

or measuring the ground with poles’

 

in her 98 years to discover   

8 comets

 

she whom the moon ruled   

like us

levitating into the night sky   

riding the polished lenses

 

Galaxies of women, there

doing penance for impetuousness   

ribs chilled   

in those spaces    of the mind

 

An eye,

 

          ‘virile, precise and absolutely certain’

          from the mad webs of Uranusborg

 

                                                            encountering the NOVA   

 

every impulse of light exploding

 

from the core

as life flies out of us

 

             Tycho whispering at last

             ‘Let me not seem to have lived in vain’

 

What we see, we see   

and seeing is changing

 

the light that shrivels a mountain   

and leaves a man alive

 

Heartbeat of the pulsar

heart sweating through my body

 

The radio impulse   

pouring in from Taurus

 

         I am bombarded yet         I stand

 

I have been standing all my life in the   

direct path of a battery of signals

the most accurately transmitted most   

untranslatable language in the universe

I am a galactic cloud so deep      so invo-

luted that a light wave could take 15   

years to travel through me       And has   

taken      I am an instrument in the shape   

of a woman trying to translate pulsations   

into images    for the relief of the body   

and the reconstruction of the mind.

Danez Smith - how many of us have them?

friends! if i may interrupt right quick

 

i know y’all working, busy smoking & busy

trying not to smoke, busy with the kids & moms

 

& busy with alone, but i have just seen

two boys — yes, black — on bikes — also — summer children

basketball shorts & they outside shoes, wild

 

laughing bout something i couldn’t hear

over my own holler, trying to steady

the wheel & not hit they asses as they swerved

frienddrunk, making their little loops, sun-lotioned

 

faces screwed up with that first & cleanest love

we forget to name as such, &, hear me out

i’m not trying to dis lil dude, but in this gold hour

he kind of looked like Francine off Arthur

same monkey mouth & all, ole & i say hey looking-ass boy

 

tho in a beautiful way, the best beautiful

same as i know all of us have looked

like something off when backlit by love. o loves,

y’all ugly asses have crowned me the worst names:

wayne brady, gay wiz khalifa, all kinds of bitches

& fags (tho only with my bitches & fags), all kinds

 

of shit &, once, mark of buddha that year acne

scored my forehead with its bumpy faith.

my niggas & my niggas who are not niggas

i been almost-pissed myself, almost been boxin’

been tears & snot off your dozen wonders

been the giddy swine dancing the flame.

o my many hearts, y’all booty-faced

 

weird-ass ole mojo-jojo-looking asses

dusty chambers where my living dwells

roast me. name me in the old ways, your shit-

talk a river i wade, howling until it takes me.

i can’t stop laughing, more river wades

down my throat. could be drowning

could be becoming the water, could be

a baptism from the inside out.

 

don’t save me, i don’t wanna be saved.

i’ve died laughing before, been seen

god’s face & you have her teeth, my nig.

but   hers   ain’t   as   yellow   as   them   saffron   shits

you   keep   stashed   in   your   gloryfoul   mouth

my friend! my friends! my niggas! my wives!

i got a crush on each one of your dumb faces

smashing into my heart like idiot cardinals into glass

but i am a big-ass glass bird, a stupid monster

 

crashing through the window & becoming

it just to make you laugh. Andrew used to say

friendship is so friendship                        & ain’t it

even after Andrew gave it on over to whatever

he was still my nigga. when they turned his body

to dust he was still my dusty-ass boy.

don’t you hear it? the dust on the fan calls me

a bum, says my hairline looks like it’s thinking

about retirement. the dust in the car says i look

like a chubby slave, says i look too drunk, takes

 

my keys, drives me home. the wind is tangled

with the dust of the dead homies, carrying us over

to them, giggling in the mirror. hear them. hear

your long-gone girl tease your hair on the bus. hear them

rolling when you sweep broom across the beaten floor.

i miss them. all the dead. how young. how silly

to miss what you will become. i apologize.

sometimes it just catches up in me. love

& ghost gets caught up in us like wind & birds

trapped in a sheet just the same. & my friends

is some birds, some chicken-head muhfuckas

 

who i would legit stomp a nigga for, do you feel me?

when they buried my nigga i put on my timbs

walked into that hot august tried to beat his name

out the dirt. i beat the earth like a nigga.

i threw hands at the earth like a punk muhfucka

& the ground chuckled, said my nigga. what is you doing!

you can’t hear the wind drunk off the kindred lent?

can you hear that great roll from way off like a big nigga

laughing in an alley! how your dead auntie laugh

when she see you still ain’t grew into that big-ass head!

like your real friend laugh when you still the same ugly

as yesterday! same ugly as always! same ugly as their last life!

Emily Jane Brontë - Riches I hold in light esteem

Riches I hold in light esteem
And Love I laugh to scorn
And lust of Fame was but a dream
That vanished with the morn–
And if I pray, the only prayer
That moves my lips for me
Is–'Leave the heart that now I bear
And give me liberty.'

 

Yes, as my swift days near their goal
'Tis all that I implore
Through life and death, a chainless soul
With courage to endure!

 

(March 1, 1841)