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

luís soares

Blog do escritor Luís Soares

Mark Strand - Provisional Eternity

A man and a woman lay in bed. “Just one more time,” said the man, “just one more time.” “Why do you keep saying that?” said the woman. “Because I never want it to end,” said the man. “What don’t you want to end?” said the woman. “This,” said the man, “this never wanting it to end.”

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.

Mark Strand - Black Maps

Not the attendance of stones,
nor the applauding wind,
shall let you know
you have arrived,

 

not the sea that celebrates
only departures,
nor the mountains,
nor the dying cities.

 

Nothing will tell you
where you are.
Each moment is a place
you’ve never been.

 

You can walk
believing you cast
a light around you.
But how will you know?

 

The present is always dark.
Its maps are black,
rising from nothing,
describing,

 

in their slow ascent
into themselves,
their own voyage,
its emptiness,

 

the bleak, temperate
necessity of its completion.
As they rise into being
they are like breath.

 

And if they are studied at all
it is only to find,
too late, what you thought
were concerns of yours

 

do not exist.
Your house is not marked
on any of them,
nor are your friends,

 

waiting for you to appear,
nor are your enemies,
listing your faults.
Only you are there,

 

saying hello
to what you will be,
and the black grass
is holding up the black stars.

Mark Strand - The Remains

I empty myself of the names of others. I empty my pockets.
I empty my shoes and leave them beside the road.
At night I turn back the clocks;
I open the family album and look at myself as a boy.

 

What good does it do? The hours have done their job.
I say my own name. I say goodbye.
The words follow each other downwind.
I love my wife but send her away.

 

My parents rise out of their thrones
into the milky rooms of clouds. How can I sing?
Time tells me what I am. I change and I am the same.
I empty myself of my life and my life remains.

Mark Strand - The Everyday Enchantment of Music

A rough sound was polished until it became a smoother sound, which was polished until it became music. Then the music was polished until it became the memory of a night in Venice when tears of the sea fell from the Bridge of Sighs, which in turn was polished until it ceased to be and in its place stood the empty home of a heart in trouble. Then suddenly there was sun and the music came back and traffic was moving and off in the distance, at the edge of the city, a long line of clouds appeared, and there was thunder, which, however menacing, would become music, and the memory of what happened after Venice would begin, and what happened after the home of the troubled heart broke in two would also begin.

Mark Strand - Storm

On the last night of our house arrest

a howling wind tore through the streets,

ripping down shutters, scattering roof tiles,

leaving behind a river of refuse. When the sun

rose over the marble gate, I could see the guards,

sluggish in the morning heat, desert their posts

and stagger toward the woods just out of town.

“Darling,” I said, “let’s go, the guards have left,

the place is a ruin.” But she was oblivious.

“You go,” she said, and she pulled up the sheet

to cover her eyes. I ran downstairs and called

for my horse. “To the sea,” I whispered, and off

we went and how quick we were, my horse and I,

riding over the fresh green fields, as if to our freedom.

Mark Strand - Reading In Place

Imagine a poem that starts with a couple
Looking into a valley, seeing their house, the lawn
Out back with its wooden chairs, its shady patches of green,
Its wooden fence, and beyond the fence the rippled silver sheen
Of the local pond, its far side a tangle of sumac, crimson
In the fading light. Now imagine somebody reading the poem
And thinking, "I never guessed it would be like this,"
Then slipping it into the back of a book while the oblivious
Couple, feeling nothing is lost, not even the white
Streak of a flicker's tail that catches their eye, nor the slight
Toss of leaves in the wind, shift their gaze to the wooden dome
of a nearby hill where the violet spread of dusk begins.
But the reader, out for a stroll in the autumn night, with all
The imprisoned sounds of nature dying around him, forgets
Not only the poem, but where he is, and thinks instead
Of a bleak Venetian mirror that hangs in a hall
By a curving stair, and how the stars in the sky's black glass
Sink down and the sea heaves them ashore like foam.
So much is adrift in the ever-opening rooms of elsewhere,
He cannot remember whose house it was, or when he was there.
Now imagine he sits years later under a lamp
And pulls a book from the shelf; the poem drops
To his lap. The couple are crossing a field
On their way home, still feeling that nothing is lost,
That they will continue to live harm-free, sealed
In the twilight's amber weather. But how will the reader know,
Especially now that he puts the poem, without looking,
Back in the book, the book where the poet stares at the sky
And says to a blank page, "Where, where in Heaven am I?"

Mark Strand - The End

Not every man knows what he shall sing at the end,
Watching the pier as the ship sails away, or what it will seem like
When he’s held by the sea’s roar, motionless, there at the end,
Or what he shall hope for once it is clear that he’ll never go back.

 

When the time has passed to prune the rose or caress the cat,
When the sunset torching the lawn and the full moon icing it down
No longer appear, not every man knows what he’ll discover instead.
When the weight of the past leans against nothing, and the sky

 

Is no more than remembered light, and the stories of cirrus
And cumulus come to a close, and all the birds are suspended in flight,
Not every man knows what is waiting for him, or what he shall sing
When the ship he is on slips into darkness, there at the end.

Mark Strand - Luminism

Mark Strand morreu no dia em que fiz 42 anos. Talvez os poetas nunca morram mas quando morre um, fico sempre triste. Em particular se a sua poesia em algum momento me iluminou. Via loverofbeauty, fica mais um poema dele.

and though it was brief, and slight, and nothing
to have been held onto so long, i remember it,
as if it had come from within, one of the scenes
the mind sets for itself, night after night, only
to part from, quickly and without warning. sunlight
flooded the valley floor and blazed on the town’s
westward facing windows. the streets shimmered like rivers,
and trees, bushes, and clouds were caught in the spill,
and nothing was spared, not the couch we sat on,
nor the rugs, nor our friends, staring off into space.
everything drowned in the golden fire. then philip
put down his glass and said: “this hand is just one
in an infinite series of hands. imagine.”
and that was it. the evening dimmed and darkened
until the western rim of the sky took on
the purple look of a bruise, and everyone stood
and said what a great sunset it had been. this was a while ago,
and it was remarkable, but something else happened then—
a cry, almost beyond our hearing, rose and rose,
as if across time, to touch us as nothing else would,
and so lightly we might live out our lives and not know.
i had no idea what it meant until now.

Mark Strand - Eating Poetry

Ink runs from the corners of my mouth.
There is no happiness like mine.
I have been eating poetry.

 

The librarian does not believe what she sees.
Her eyes are sad
and she walks with her hands in her dress.

 

The poems are gone.
The light is dim.
The dogs are on the basement stairs and coming up.

 

Their eyeballs roll,
their blond legs burn like brush.
The poor librarian begins to stamp her feet and weep.

 

She does not understand.
When I get on my knees and lick her hand,
she screams.

 

I am a new man,
I snarl at her and bark,
I romp with joy in the bookish dark.