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luís soares

Blog do escritor Luís Soares

Leonard Cohen - Drank a Lot

i drank a lot. i lost my job.

i lived like nothing mattered.

then you stopped, and came across

my little bridge of fallen answers.

 

i don’t recall what happened next.

i kept you at a distance.

but tangled in the knot of sex

my punishment was lifted.

 

and lifted on a single breath—

no coming and no going—

o G-d, you are the only friend

i never thought of knowing.

 

your remedies beneath my hand

your fingers in my hair

the kisses on our lips began

that ended everywhere.

 

and now our sins are all confessed

our strategies forgiven

it’s written that the law must rest

before the law is written.

 

and not because of what i’d lost

and not for what i’d mastered

you stopped for me, and came across

the bridge of fallen answers.

 

tho’ mercy has no point of view

and no one’s here to suffer

we cry aloud, as humans do:

we cry to one another.

 

And now it’s one, and now it’s two,

And now the whole disaster.

We cry for help, as humans do—

Before the truth, and after.

 

And Every Guiding Light Was Gone

And Every Teacher Lying—

There Was No Truth In Moving On—

There Was No Truth In Dying.

 

And Then The Night Commanded Me

To Enter In Her Side—

And Be As Adam Was To Eve

Before The Great Divide.

 

her remedies beneath my hand

her fingers in my hair—

and every mouth of hunger glad—

and deeply unaware.

 

and here i cannot lift a hand

to trace the lines of beauty,

but lines are traced, and beauty’s glad

to come and go so freely.

 

and from the wall a grazing wind,

weightless and routine—

it wounds us as i part your lips

it wounds us in between.

 

and every guiding light was gone

and every sweet direction—

the book of love i read was wrong

it had a happy ending.

 

And Now There Is No Point Of View—

And Now There Is No Other—

We Spread And Drown As Lilies Do—

We Spread And Drown Forever.

 

You are my tongue, you are my eye,

My coming and my going.

O G-d, you let your sailor die

So he could be the ocean.

 

And when I’m at my hungriest

She takes away my tongue

And holds me here where hungers rest

Before the world is born.

 

And fastened here we cannot move

We cannot move forever

We spread and drown as lilies do—

From nowhere to the center.

 

Escaping through a secret gate

I made it to the border

And call it luck—or call it fate—

I left my house in order.

 

And now there is no point of view—

And now there is no other—

We spread and drown as lilies do—

We spread and drown forever.

 

Disguised as one who lived in peace

I made it to the border

Though every atom of my heart

Was burning with desire.

Carl Sandburg - Theme In Yellow

I spot the hills
With yellow balls in autumn.
I light the prairie cornfields
Orange and tawny gold clusters
And I am called pumpkins.
On the last of October
When dusk is fallen
Children join hands
And circle round me
Singing ghost songs
And love to the harvest moon;
I am a jack-o'-lantern
With terrible teeth
And the children know
I am fooling.

When a Boy Tells You He Loves You

Edwin Bodney - "When a Boy Tells You He Loves You"

 

When a boy tells you he loves you

It'll be the first time you hear this

It is late and he isn't even there to tell you this in person but instead from a car ride home from a bar in Chicago he is there on business

And of course you will smile

Because he sounds like he means it

Because you believe him

Because a boy has never handed those words to you like crushed black berries in the palms of his hands

Firm, young, full

Waiting to taste sweet with you, his arms, creeping vines begging to touch the sun, and your face saying; here

Take everything I have ever touched to be closer to you

His breath waiting to be folded into a love note passed in between the nape of your neck and his front teeth

He will remember the time you told him you felt safe in his mouth and he will never grow hungry...

Just distant

 

When a boy tells you he loves you

You will hear music

The voice of your past lovers dancing up your throat

Your stomach, in after hours cabaret, still waiting on the last call

That was when you learned that when a boy says "I love you" he means I am getting ready to be inconsistent with you now

 

This boy will tell you that he loves you

Not long after he had you waiting for 2 hours in front of a cocktail lounge

Patience is something you are working on

But no, not for him

When he asks you to tell him that you love him back, you will be in a car in the parking lot of a late night diner

You will watch the words fall into your lap like a spilled glass of white wine

You will remember the day your courier pigeon heart got lost in the wind because that was a message it did not know how or where to carry and one by one the boys have fallen as silently as the birds do

 

So eloquently they used to speak until I asked the questions that broke them into ghosts

That bled me into a corpse with so many questions of my own for the soil but they're tongues do not know simple

The things I should be hearing, the things that will make us living men in this time of insatiable yet dying lovers

When a boy tells you he loves you

Only to become silent like a folded sheet of tissue paper

Not wanting you to decrease him into the truth

 

Do not crack your face into the fullest crescent moon of the tapered bottom of a blackened sky

He never meant a single word of any of it

He is just a boy, remember?

He is just another silly, sad boy, remember?

Pam A. Parker - Brooklyn Crossing

The masts are mostly gone, Walt. Pleasure-sailors
ply the harbor, piloting fiberglass forty-footers
down from the North Shore, one at the wheel,
one to haul sail and sit, staring over the water’s face.

 

A swimmer, strong and lucky, might make it,
cutting an angle across the current, ebb up, flood down.
Jumpers, too, are rare, these days: a train is more reliable,
that third, electrified rail, half-covered, always visible.

 

On the river, among the boats, you rode
the ferry low against the water’s breast.
If you mean to stand in the same place today, old man,
it’s moved. I would not find you on the Brooklyn boat,
but browsing over the east-facing rail
of the Staten Island Ferry.

 

Coming back, you stand in the docking end,
grasp the safety chain, hold the mass
of Wall Street towers in your encompassing gaze.

 

You know me, standing at a window twenty stories up,
whether I recognize you or not.
Your curiosity seeks me out, its bare and ample limbs embrace me.
There is that between us that lets me know you.

Henri Cole - At the Grave of Elizabeth Bishop

I, detaching myself from the human I, Henri,
without thick eyeglasses or rubberized white skin,
stretched out like a sinewy cat in the brown grass
to see what I felt, wrapping my tail around me,
hiding my eyes.
                I slept. I waited. I sucked air,
instead of milk. I listened to pigeons murmuring.
Scratching my ear, I couldn't tell if I was male or female.
The bundled energy of my life drifted along
somewhere between pain and pleasure,
until a deerfly launched an attack
and anger, like a florist's scissors,
pinched the bright chrysanthemum of my brain.
Overhead, the long enfolding branches,
weighted down with Venetian green,
suffused the air with possibility.
I felt like a realist, recovering from style.
Grief and dignity swirled around discreetly,
transferring to me an aura of calm,
as I lay in a shawl of gold light,
licking my paws, licking my throat,
my smooth imperturbable face revealing nothing,
even when I thought about my first loves,
surface and symbol, rubbing against me,
humping in the shadows, making my whole body tremble.
I purred, watching an iridescent blue beetle
imbibe chlorophyll from a leaf.
I flared my nostrils, hearing a starling
splash in an amphora of rainwater.
With my paws in the air, exposing my ripe belly,
I rubbed my spine, a little drunk on the ultraviolet rays
and on myself, I confess.
Then the sky cleared. Birds were flying.
I felt a deep throbbing, as from a distant factory,
binding me to others, a faint battering of wings against glass
that was the heart in the lovely dark behind my breast,
as I was crouching to tie my shoelaces,
feeling strange in the meaty halves of my buttocks,
until I sprinkled a little earth on my head,
like Hadrian reunited with the place he loved.

William Blake - London

I wander thro' each charter'd street,
Near where the charter'd Thames does flow.
And mark in every face I meet
Marks of weakness, marks of woe.

 

In every cry of every Man,
In every Infants cry of fear,
In every voice: in every ban,
The mind-forg'd manacles I hear

 

How the Chimney-sweepers cry
Every blackning Church appalls,
And the hapless Soldiers sigh
Runs in blood down Palace walls

 

But most thro' midnight streets I hear
How the youthful Harlots curse
Blasts the new-born Infants tear
And blights with plagues the Marriage hearse

Tom Clark - Where I Live

The stars flow beneath the water
The clouds freeze or collapse
In laughter, lure like a pledge
Like hockey, trust, language
Approach and spit on a flower
Cruelly and scream in the forest
Of mildness, portrayed by art
As endless steps into the sky
But while all this is going on
An aimed surmise, noiseless
As the heaven that gathers it
Banishes beauty-hemmed man
To bed, as sleep extinguishes
The planet in whirring dreams
Where slowness flows to be
Breathless, like a bicyclist.

Anne Simpson - Orpheus Afterwards

He lies on the grass. One hippogriff
of cloud becomes another: expanding,
contracting. It’s all unreal, the same
sky and river, the scent of living
things. The last of the ice floes passes
on the water, shears in two
pieces against the bridge. He studies
his hands, bitten fingernails. Every
time he turns he feels the stamping hooves,

 

the great herd. A man can get used
to anything, grow accustomed to
a change of seasons, each snap
of the moon. Even when he’s stretched
out on this slope he hears a steady
thrumming. It’s a long way off,
but he lies still, pretending. Once
he put candles in each window
of her body: a thousand wavering
lights. Back then he knew about fire.

Mary Szybist - The Troubadours Etc.

Just for this evening, let's not mock them.

Not their curtsies or cross-garters

or ever-recurring pepper trees in their gardens

promising, promising.

 

At least they had ideas about love.

 

All day we've driven past cornfields, past cows poking their heads

through metal contraptions to eat.

We've followed West 84, and what else?

Irrigation sprinklers fly past us, huge wooden spools in the fields,

lounging sheep, telephone wires,

yellowing flowering shrubs.

 

Before us, above us, the clouds swell, layers of them,

the violet underneath of clouds.

Every idea I have is nostalgia. Look up:

there is the sky that passenger pigeons darkened and filled—

darkened for days, eclipsing sun, eclipsing all other sound

with the thunder of their wings.

After a while, it must have seemed that they followed

not instinct or pattern but only

one another.

 

When they stopped, Audubon observed,

they broke the limbs of stout trees by the weight of the numbers.

 

And when we stop we'll follow—what?

Our hearts?

 

The Puritans thought that we are granted the ability to love

only through miracle,

but the troubadours knew how to burn themselves through,

how to make themselves shrines to their own longing.

The spectacular was never behind them.

 

Think of days of those scarlet-breasted, blue-winged birds above you.

Think of me in the garden, humming

quietly to myself in my blue dress,

a blue darker than the sky above us, a blue dark enough for storms,

though cloudless.

 

At what point is something gone completely?

The last of the sunlight is disappearing

even as it swells—

 

Just for this evening, won't you put me before you

until I'm far enough away you can

believe in me?

 

Then try, try to come closer—

my wonderful and less than.

Pedro Homem de Mello - Solidão

A Eugénio de Andrade

 

Ó solidão! À noite, quando, estranho,

Vagueio sem destino, pelas ruas,

O mar todo é de pedra... E continuas.

Todo o vento é poeira... E continuas.

A Lua, fria, pesa... E continuas.

Uma hora passa e outra... E continuas.

Nas minhas mãos vazias continuas,

No meu sexo indomável continuas,

Na minha branca insónia continuas.

Para com quem foge. E continuas.

Chamo por toda a gente. E continuas.

Ninguém me ouve. Ninguém! E continuas.

Invento um verso... E rasgo-o. E continuas.

Eterna, continuas.

Mas sei por fim que sou do teu tamanho!

 

in O Rapaz da Camisola Verde, 1954