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luís soares

Blog do escritor Luís Soares

Adrienne Rich - Quarto

1.
Call me Sebastian, arrows sticking all over
The map of my battlefields. Marathon.
Wounded Knee. Vicksburg. Jericho.
Battle of the Overpass.
Victories turned inside out
But no surrender

 

Cemeteries of remorse
The beaten champion sobbing
Ghosts move in to shield his tears

 

2.
No one writes lyric on a battlefield
On a map stuck with arrows
But I think I can do it if I just lurk
In my tent pretending to
Refeather my arrows

 

I'll be right there! I yell
When they come with their crossbows and white phosphorus
To recruit me
Crouching over my drafts
lest they find me out
and shoot me

 

3.
Press your cheek against my medals, listen through them to my heart
Doctor, can you see me if I'm naked?

 

Spent longer in this place than in the war
No one comes but rarely and I don't know what for

 

Went to that desert as many did before
Farewell and believing and hope not to die

 

Hope not to die and what was the life
Did we think was awaiting after

 

Lay down your stethoscope back off on your skills
Doctor can you see me when I'm naked?

 

4.
I'll tell you about the mermaid
Sheds swimmable tail    Gets legs for dancing
Sings like the sea with a choked throat
Knives straight up her spine
Lancing every step
There is a price
There is a price
For every gift
And all advice

Adrienne Rich - The Burning of Paper Instead of Children

I was in danger of verbalizing my moral impulses out of existence.

                                               – Fr Daniel Berrigan, on trial in Baltimore

 

1.

 

My neighbor, a scientist and art-collector, telephones me in a state of violent emotion. He tells me that my son and his, aged eleven and twelve, have on the last day of school burned a mathematics textbook in the backyard. He has forbidden my son to come to his house for a week, and has forbidden his own son to leave the house during that time. "The burning of a book," he says, "arouses terrible sensations in me, memories of Hitler; there are few things that upset me so much as the idea of burning a book."

 

Back there: the library, walled
with green Britannicas
Looking again
in Dürer's Complete Works
for MELENCOLIA, the baffled woman

 

the crocodiles in Herodotus
the Book of the Dead
the Trial of Jeanne d'Arc, so blue
I think, It is her color

 

and they take the book away
because I dream of her too often


love and fear in a house
knowledge of the oppressor


I know it hurts to burn

 

2.

 

To imagine a time of silence
or few words
a time of chemistry and music

 

the hollows above your buttocks
traced by my hand
or, hair is like flesh, you said

 

an age of long silence

 

relief

 

from this tongue       this slab of limestone
or reinforced concrete
fanatics and traders
dumped on this coast       wildgreen     clayred
that breathed once
in signals of smoke
sweep of the wind

 

knowledge of the oppressor
this is the oppressor's language

 

 

yet I need it to talk to you

 

3.

 

“People suffer highly in poverty and it takes dignity and intelligence to overcome this suffering. Some of the suffering are: a child did not had dinner last night: a child steal because he did not have money to buy it: to hear a mother say she do not have money to buy food for her children and to see a child without cloth it will make tears in your eyes.”

 

(the fracture of order
the repair of speech
to overcome this suffering)

 

4.

 

We lie under the sheet
after making love, speaking
of loneliness
relieved in a book
relived in a book
so on that page
the clot and fissure
of it appears
words of a man
in pain
a naked word
entering the clot
a hand grasping
through bars:

 

Deliverance

 

What happens between us
has happened for centuries
we know it from literature

 

still it happens

 

sexual jealousy
outflung hand
beating bed

 

dryness of mouth
after panting

 

there are books that describe all this
and they are useless

 

You walk into the woods behind a house
there in that country
you find a temple
built eighteen hundred years ago
you enter without knowing
what it is you enter

 

so it is with us

 

no one knows what may happen
though the books tell everything

 

burn the texts     said Artaud

 

5.

 

I am composing on the typewriter late at night, thinking of today. How well we all spoke. A language is a map of our failures. Frederick Douglass wrote an English purer than Milton's. People suffer highly in poverty. There are methods but we do not use them. Joan, who could not read, spoke some peasant form of French. Some of the suffering are: it is hard to tell the truth; this is America; I cannot touch you now. In America we have only the present tense. I am in danger. You are in danger. The burning of a book arouses no sensation in me. I know it hurts to burn. There are flames of napalm in Catonsville, Maryland. I know it hurts to burn. The typewriter is overheated, my mouth is burning. I cannot touch you and this is the oppressor's language.

 

1968

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.

Adrienne Rich - What Kind of Times Are These

There's a place between two stands of trees where the grass grows uphill
and the old revolutionary road breaks off into shadows
near a meeting-house abandoned by the persecuted
who disappeared into those shadows.

 

I've walked there picking mushrooms at the edge of dread, but don't be fooled
this isn't a Russian poem, this is not somewhere else but here,
our country moving closer to its own truth and dread,
its own ways of making people disappear.

 

I won't tell you where the place is, the dark mesh of the woods
meeting the unmarked strip of light—
ghost-ridden crossroads, leafmold paradise:
I know already who wants to buy it, sell it, make it disappear.

 

And I won't tell you where it is, so why do I tell you
anything? Because you still listen, because in times like these
to have you listen at all, it's necessary
to talk about trees.

Adrienne Rich - Twenty-One Love Poems [(The Floating Poem, Unnumbered)]

Whatever happens with us, your body
will haunt mine—tender, delicate
your lovemaking, like the half-curled frond
of the fiddlehead fern in forests
just washed by sun. Your traveled, generous thighs
between which my whole face has come and come—
the innocence and wisdom of the place my tongue has found there—
the live, insatiate dance of your nipples in my mouth—
your touch on me, firm, protective, searching
me out, your strong tongue and slender fingers
reaching where I had been waiting years for you
in my rose-wet cave—whatever happens, this is.

Adrienne Rich - Final Notations

it will not be simple, it will not be long
it will take little time, it will take all your thought
it will take all your heart, it will take all your breath
it will be short, it will not be simple

 

it will touch through your ribs, it will take all your heart
it will not be long, it will occupy your thought
as a city is occupied, as a bed is occupied
it will take all your flesh, it will not be simple

 

You are coming into us who cannot withstand you
you are coming into us who never wanted to withstand you
you are taking parts of us into places never planned
you are going far away with pieces of our lives

 

it will be short, it will take all your breath
it will not be simple, it will become your will

Adrienne Rich - Tonight No Poetry Will Serve

Saw you walking barefoot
taking a long look
at the new moon's eyelid

 

later spread
sleep-fallen, naked in your dark hair
asleep but not oblivious
of the unslept unsleeping
elsewhere

 

Tonight I think
no poetry
will serve

 

Syntax of rendition:

 

verb pilots the plane
adverb modifies action

 

verb force-feeds noun
submerges the subject
noun is choking
verb    disgraced    goes on doing

 

now diagram the sentence

Adrienne Rich - From an Atlas of the Difficult World

I know you are reading this poem
late, before leaving your office
of the one intense yellow lamp-spot and the darkening window
in the lassitude of a building faded to quiet
long after rush-hour. I know you are reading this poem
standing up in a bookstore far from the ocean
on a grey day of early spring, faint flakes driven
across the plains' enormous spaces around you.
I know you are reading this poem
in a room where too much has happened for you to bear
where the bedclothes lie in stagnant coils on the bed
and the open valise speaks of flight
but you cannot leave yet. I know you are reading this poem
as the underground train loses momentum and before running
up the stairs
toward a new kind of love
your life has never allowed.
I know you are reading this poem by the light
of the television screen where soundless images jerk and slide
while you wait for the newscast from the intifada.
I know you are reading this poem in a waiting-room
of eyes met and unmeeting, of identity with strangers.
I know you are reading this poem by fluorescent light
in the boredom and fatigue of the young who are counted out,
count themselves out, at too early an age. I know
you are reading this poem through your failing sight, the thick
lens enlarging these letters beyond all meaning yet you read on
because even the alphabet is precious.
I know you are reading this poem as you pace beside the stove
warming milk, a crying child on your shoulder, a book in your
hand
because life is short and you too are thirsty.
I know you are reading this poem which is not in your language
guessing at some words while others keep you reading
and I want to know which words they are.
I know you are reading this poem listening for something, torn
between bitterness and hope
turning back once again to the task you cannot refuse.
I know you are reading this poem because there is nothing else
left to read
there where you have landed, stripped as you are.