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luís soares

Blog do escritor Luís Soares

Matthew Zapruder - Poem for Merwin

for a long time you planted one every day
and now the garden is a clock on forest time


forest time where we were happy
for a few translucent hours moving
into the ghost houses
no longer there


and the shade houses
that are
their myth of air


and the places where people used to gather
by the stream that is now a dry bed
to eat and sing
we cannot almost hear them


then out along the narrow paths
over stones I kept forgetting
like years you had placed


and the dead clock face painters
covered in radium could not convey
their messages to us
here in the permanent shade


the palms with their very different leaves
and seed pods seem to say


you who think nothing can be repaired


you who will not ever
be able to describe our shapes
and say I love to no one


or today I was born


you burned astronomers
look at our wet leaves
maybe you were not even born
for knowing your own planets


you were not born for knowing
but saying


a piece of wood burned next to the little jade statue
means no matter how many times we leave
we will keep returning


it means no matter how many times we go
out where they sell executions


we will come back here
where the black gravestone
is a window in love with the beloved


on it is written here we were happy
which is true


reading it I would like to remember
what I am feeling now
that I would like not to be
the mechanism


a blade angled in reason


I too would like to lay down
in my own sort of field
green with potential love


today I know I was born
to try to remember
the name of the simplest leaf


from the tree of my childhood


I have always known that god all along
and that we were each born
the shadow of reality upon us


so be not easily angry
pick up the small rose book
with its disappearing house on the cover


enter its doorway
get lost for a while


forget we were born to carry our names


until it is our turn with nothing to say
except maybe we were born to love


and move further on

Matthew Zapruder - Poem for Passengers

Like all strangers who temporarily
find themselves moving in the same direction
we look out the window
without really seeing or down at our phones
trying to catch the dying signal
then the famous lonesome whistle
so many singers have sung about
blows and our bodies shudder
soon we will pick up speed
and pass the abandoned factories
there has lately been so much conversation about
through broken windows they stare
asking us to decide
but we fall asleep next to each other
riding into the tunnel
sharing without knowing the same dream
in it we are carrying something
an empty casket somehow so heavy
only together can we carry it
over a bridge in the snow
emerging suddenly into the light
we wake and open our laptops
or a book about murder
or a glossy magazine
though we are mostly awake
part of us still goes on solving
problems so great they cannot be named
even once we have reached our destination
and disembark into whatever weather
for a long time there is a compartment
within us filled with analog silence
inside us the dream goes on and on

Matthew Zapruder - Poem

Your eyes are not always brown. In
the wild of our backyard they are light
green like a sunny day reflected
in the eyes of a frog looking
at another frog. I love your love,
it feels dispensed from a metal tap
attached to a big vat gleaming
in a giant room full of shiny whispers.
I also love tasting you after a difficult
day doing nothing assiduously.
Diamond factory, sentient mischievous
metal fruit hanging from the trees
in a museum people wander into thinking
for once I am not shopping. I admire
and fear you, to me you are an abyss
I cross towards you. Just look
directly into my face you said and I felt
everything stop trying to fit. And
the marching band took a deep collective
breath and plunged back into its song.

Matthew Zapruder - Poem for Bill Cassidy

I wish I would
like a ship
that all night carries
its beloved captain
sleeping through
no weather
slip past dawn
and wake with nothing
but strange things
that did not happen
to report
but I get up
in the dark
and parachute
quietly down
to the kitchen
to begin
the purely mental
ritual plugging
in of the useless
worry machine
above me
she sleeps
like the innocent
still dreaming older
sister to all
gentle things
the white screen
impassively asks
me to say what
does not matter
does so I shut
it down and think
about the lake
near where I live
it’s a lagoon
getting lighter
like an old blue
just switched on
maybe a Zenith
it has two arms
they stretch
without feeling
east to embrace
an empty park
a little light
then everything
has a shadow
I almost hear
a silent bell
low voices
I brought us
to this old city
the port connects
to the world
where everyone
pretends to know
they live
on an island
waiting for
the giant wave
in some form
maybe radiation
in the yard
the wind blows
the whole black
sky looks down
for an instant
through my sleepy
isolate frame
a complex child
hologram flickers
angrily holding
a green plastic shovel
then disappears
leaving an empty
column waiting
Bill who I knew
was so angry
is dead
whatever he was
going through
I kept away
I never did
I love his poem
he was really good
I keep forgetting
his last name
I always leave
his handmade book
on my desk
not to remember
but because for hours
after everything
everyone says
sounds like a language
I never knew
but now speak
spirit I know
you would have hated
how I think
you would have liked
this music
in another room
pushing the alien
voice into
the millennium
the one you left
so early
you were right
all noble
things are gone
except to struggle
and be loved

Matthew Zapruder - April Snow

Today in El Paso all the planes are asleep on the runway. The world
is in a delay. All the political consultants drinking whiskey keep
their heads down, lifting them only to look at the beautiful scarred
waitress who wears typewriter keys as a necklace. They jingle
when she brings them drinks. Outside the giant plate glass windows
the planes are completely covered in snow, it piles up on the wings.
I feel like a mountain of cell phone chargers. Each of the various
faiths of our various fathers keeps us only partly protected. I don’t
want to talk on the phone to an angel. At night before I go to sleep
I am already dreaming. Of coffee, of ancient generals, of the faces
of statues each of which has the eternal expression of one of my feelings.
I examine my feelings without feeling anything. I ride my blue bike
on the edge of the desert. I am president of this glass of water.

Missy Mazzoli - Vespers for a New Dark Age

Composer Missy Mazzoli and her ensemble Victoire have teamed up with percussionist Glenn Kotche (of Wilco), synth producer Lorna Dune and virtuosic vocalists Mellissa HughesMartha Cluver and Virginia Warnken (of Roomful of Teeth) to record Mazzoli’s expansive new work, Vespers for a New Dark Age. Over two years in the making, Vespers for a New Dark Age is a brazen interpretation of the vespers prayer service that replaces the customary sacred verses with poems by Matthew Zapruder.