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luís soares

Blog do escritor Luís Soares

Charles Simic - The Body

This last continent

Still to be discovered.

 

My hand is dreaming, is building

Its ship. For crew it takes

A pack of bones, for food

A beer-bottle full of blood.

 

It knows the breath that blows north.

With the breath from the west

I will sail east each night.

 

The scent of your body as it sleeps

Are the land-birds sighted at sea.

 

My touch is on the highest mast.

It cries at four in the morning

For a lantern to be lit

On the rim of the world.

Robert Frost - Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

 

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

 

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

 

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

Ted Kooser - Two

On a parking lot staircase
I met two fine-looking men
descending, both in slacks
and dress shirts, neckties
much alike, one of the men
in his sixties, the other
a good twenty years older,
unsteady on his polished shoes,
a son and his father, I knew
from their looks, the son with his
right hand on the handrail,
the father, left hand on the left,
and in the middle they were
holding hands, and when I neared,
they opened the simple gate
of their interwoven fingers
to let me pass, then reached out
for each other and continued on.

Ted Kooser - Abandoned Farmhouse

He was a big man, says the size of his shoes
on a pile of broken dishes by the house;
a tall man too, says the length of the bed
in an upstairs room; and a good, God-fearing man,
says the Bible with a broken back
on the floor below the window, dusty with sun;
but not a man for farming, say the fields
cluttered with boulders and the leaky barn.

 

A woman lived with him, says the bedroom wall
papered with lilacs and the kitchen shelves
covered with oilcloth, and they had a child,
says the sandbox made from a tractor tire.
Money was scarce, say the jars of plum preserves
and canned tomatoes sealed in the cellar hole.
And the winters cold, say the rags in the window frames.
It was lonely here, says the narrow country road.

 

Something went wrong, says the empty house
in the weed-choked yard. Stones in the fields
say he was not a farmer; the still-sealed jars
in the cellar say she left in a nervous haste.
And the child? Its toys are strewn in the yard
like branches after a storm—a rubber cow,
a rusty tractor with a broken plow,
a doll in overalls. Something went wrong, they say.

Ted Kooser - Look For Me

Look for me under the hood
of that old Chevrolet settled in weeds
at the end of the pasture.

 

I'm the radiator that spent its years
bolted in front of an engine
shoving me forward into the wind.

 

Whatever was in me in those days
has mostly leaked away,
but my cap's still screwed on tight

 

and I know the names of all these
tattered moths and broken grasshoppers
the rest of you've forgotten.

Robert Frost - The Road Not Taken

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth;

 

Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim,

Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

Though as for that the passing there

Had worn them really about the same,

 

And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back.

 

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

Robert Frost - The Death of the Hired Man

Mary sat musing on the lamp-flame at the table 

Waiting for Warren. When she heard his step, 

She ran on tip-toe down the darkened passage 

To meet him in the doorway with the news 

And put him on his guard. “Silas is back.”          

She pushed him outward with her through the door 

And shut it after her. “Be kind," she said. 

She took the market things from Warren’s arms 

And set them on the porch, then drew him down 

To sit beside her on the wooden steps.           

 

“When was I ever anything but kind to him? 

But I’ll not have the fellow back," he said. 

“I told him so last haying, didn’t I? 

‘If he left then,’ I said, ‘that ended it.’ 

What good is he? Who else will harbour him           

At his age for the little he can do? 

What help he is there’s no depending on. 

Off he goes always when I need him most. 

‘He thinks he ought to earn a little pay, 

Enough at least to buy tobacco with,           

So he won’t have to beg and be beholden.’ 

‘All right,’ I say, ‘I can’t afford to pay 

Any fixed wages, though I wish I could.’ 

‘Someone else can.’ ‘Then someone else will have to.’ 

I shouldn’t mind his bettering himself           

If that was what it was. You can be certain, 

When he begins like that, there’s someone at him 

Trying to coax him off with pocket-money,— 

In haying time, when any help is scarce. 

In winter he comes back to us. I’m done.”           

 

“Sh! not so loud: he’ll hear you," Mary said. 

 

“I want him to: he’ll have to soon or late.” 

 

“He’s worn out. He’s asleep beside the stove. 

When I came up from Rowe’s I found him here, 

Huddled against the barn-door fast asleep,           

A miserable sight, and frightening, too— 

You needn’t smile—I didn’t recognise him— 

I wasn’t looking for him—and he’s changed. 

Wait till you see.” 

 

“Where did you say he’d been?”           

 

“He didn’t say. I dragged him to the house, 

And gave him tea and tried to make him smoke. 

I tried to make him talk about his travels. 

Nothing would do: he just kept nodding off.” 

 

“What did he say? Did he say anything?”           

 

“But little.” 

 

“Anything? Mary, confess 

He said he’d come to ditch the meadow for me.” 

 

“Warren!” 

 

“But did he? I just want to know.”           

 

“Of course he did. What would you have him say? 

Surely you wouldn’t grudge the poor old man 

Some humble way to save his self-respect. 

He added, if you really care to know, 

He meant to clear the upper pasture, too.           

That sounds like something you have heard before? 

Warren, I wish you could have heard the way 

He jumbled everything. I stopped to look 

Two or three times—he made me feel so queer— 

To see if he was talking in his sleep.           

He ran on Harold Wilson—you remember— 

The boy you had in haying four years since. 

He’s finished school, and teaching in his college. 

Silas declares you’ll have to get him back. 

He says they two will make a team for work:           

Between them they will lay this farm as smooth! 

The way he mixed that in with other things. 

He thinks young Wilson a likely lad, though daft 

On education—you know how they fought 

All through July under the blazing sun,           

Silas up on the cart to build the load, 

Harold along beside to pitch it on.” 

 

“Yes, I took care to keep well out of earshot.” 

 

“Well, those days trouble Silas like a dream. 

You wouldn’t think they would. How some things linger!           

Harold’s young college boy’s assurance piqued him. 

After so many years he still keeps finding 

Good arguments he sees he might have used. 

I sympathise. I know just how it feels 

To think of the right thing to say too late.           

Harold’s associated in his mind with Latin. 

He asked me what I thought of Harold’s saying 

He studied Latin like the violin 

Because he liked it—that an argument! 

He said he couldn’t make the boy believe           

He could find water with a hazel prong— 

Which showed how much good school had ever done him. 

He wanted to go over that. But most of all 

He thinks if he could have another chance 

To teach him how to build a load of hay——"           

 

“I know, that’s Silas’ one accomplishment. 

He bundles every forkful in its place, 

And tags and numbers it for future reference, 

So he can find and easily dislodge it 

In the unloading. Silas does that well.           

He takes it out in bunches like big birds’ nests. 

You never see him standing on the hay 

He’s trying to lift, straining to lift himself.” 

 

“He thinks if he could teach him that, he’d be 

Some good perhaps to someone in the world.            

He hates to see a boy the fool of books. 

Poor Silas, so concerned for other folk, 

And nothing to look backward to with pride, 

And nothing to look forward to with hope, 

So now and never any different.”            

 

Part of a moon was falling down the west, 

Dragging the whole sky with it to the hills. 

Its light poured softly in her lap. She saw 

And spread her apron to it. She put out her hand 

Among the harp-like morning-glory strings,            

Taut with the dew from garden bed to eaves, 

As if she played unheard the tenderness 

That wrought on him beside her in the night. 

“Warren," she said, “he has come home to die: 

You needn’t be afraid he’ll leave you this time.”            

 

“Home," he mocked gently. 

 

“Yes, what else but home? 

It all depends on what you mean by home. 

Of course he’s nothing to us, any more 

Than was the hound that came a stranger to us            

Out of the woods, worn out upon the trail.” 

 

“Home is the place where, when you have to go there, 

They have to take you in.” 

 

“I should have called it 

Something you somehow haven’t to deserve.”            

 

Warren leaned out and took a step or two, 

Picked up a little stick, and brought it back 

And broke it in his hand and tossed it by. 

“Silas has better claim on us you think 

Than on his brother? Thirteen little miles            

As the road winds would bring him to his door. 

Silas has walked that far no doubt to-day. 

Why didn’t he go there? His brother’s rich, 

A somebody—director in the bank.” 

 

“He never told us that.”            

 

“We know it though.” 

 

“I think his brother ought to help, of course. 

I’ll see to that if there is need. He ought of right 

To take him in, and might be willing to— 

He may be better than appearances.            

But have some pity on Silas. Do you think 

If he’d had any pride in claiming kin 

Or anything he looked for from his brother, 

He’d keep so still about him all this time?” 

 

“I wonder what’s between them.”            

 

“I can tell you. 

Silas is what he is—we wouldn’t mind him— 

But just the kind that kinsfolk can’t abide. 

He never did a thing so very bad. 

He don’t know why he isn’t quite as good            

As anyone. He won’t be made ashamed 

To please his brother, worthless though he is.” 

 

“I can’t think Si ever hurt anyone.” 

 

“No, but he hurt my heart the way he lay 

And rolled his old head on that sharp-edged chair-back.            

He wouldn’t let me put him on the lounge. 

You must go in and see what you can do. 

I made the bed up for him there to-night. 

You’ll be surprised at him—how much he’s broken.  

His working days are done; I’m sure of it.”            

 

“I’d not be in a hurry to say that.” 

 

“I haven’t been. Go, look, see for yourself. 

But, Warren, please remember how it is: 

He’s come to help you ditch the meadow. 

He has a plan. You mustn’t laugh at him.            

He may not speak of it, and then he may. 

I’ll sit and see if that small sailing cloud 

Will hit or miss the moon.” 

 

It hit the moon. 

Then there were three there, making a dim row,            

The moon, the little silver cloud, and she. 

 

Warren returned—too soon, it seemed to her, 

Slipped to her side, caught up her hand and waited. 

 

“Warren," she questioned. 

 

“Dead," was all he answered.

Martín Espada - Letter to My Father

October 2017

 

You once said: My reward for this life will be a thousand pounds of dirt

shoveled in my face. You were wrong. You are seven pounds of ashes

in a box, a Puerto Rican flag wrapped around you, next to a red brick

from the house in Utuado where you were born, all crammed together

on my bookshelf. You taught me there is no God, no life after this life,

so I know you are not watching me type this letter over my shoulder.

 

When I was a boy, you were God. I watched from the seventh floor

of the projects as you walked down into the street to stop a public

execution. A big man caught a small man stealing his car, and everyone

in Brooklyn heard the car alarm wail of the condemned: He’s killing me.

At a word from you, the executioner’s hand slipped from the hair

of the thief. The kid was high, was all you said when you came back to us.

 

When I was a boy, and you were God, we flew to Puerto Rico. You said:

My grandfather was the mayor of Utuado. His name was Buenaventura.

That means good fortune. I believed in your grandfather’s name.

I heard the tree frogs chanting to each other all night. I saw banana

leaf and elephant palm sprouting from the mountain’s belly. I gnawed

the mango’s pit, and the sweet yellow hair stuck between my teeth.

I said to you: You came from another planet. How did you do it?

You said: Every morning, just before I woke up, I saw the mountains.

 

Every morning, I see the mountains. In Utuado, three sisters,

all in their seventies, all bedridden, all Pentecostales who only left

the house for church, lay sleeping on mattresses spread across the floor

when the hurricane gutted the mountain the way a butcher slices open

a dangled pig, and a rolling wall of mud buried them, leaving the fourth

sister to stagger into the street, screaming like an unheeded prophet

about the end of the world. In Utuado, a man who cultivated a garden

of aguacate and carambola, feeding the avocado and star fruit to his

nieces from New York, saw the trees in his garden beheaded all at once

like the soldiers of a beaten army, and so hanged himself. In Utuado,

a welder and a handyman rigged a pulley with a shopping cart to ferry

rice and beans across the river where the bridge collapsed, witnessed

the cart swaying above so many hands, then raised a sign that told

the helicopters: Campamento los Olvidados: Camp of the Forgotten.

 

Los olvidados wait seven hours in line for a government meal of Skittles

and Vienna sausage, or a tarp to cover the bones of a house with no roof,

as the fungus grows on their skin from sleeping on mattresses drenched

with the spit of the hurricane. They drink the brown water, waiting

for microscopic monsters in their bellies to visit plagues upon them.

A nurse says: These people are going to have an epidemic. These people

are going to die. The president flips rolls of paper towels to a crowd

at a church in Guaynabo, Zeus lobbing thunderbolts on the locked ward

of his delusions. Down the block, cousin Ricardo, Bernice’s boy, says

that somebody stole his can of diesel. I heard somebody ask you once

what Puerto Rico needed to be free. And you said: Tres pulgadas

de sangre en la calle: Three inches of blood in the street. Now, three

inches of mud flow through the streets of Utuado, and troops patrol

the town, as if guarding the vein of copper in the ground, as if a shovel

digging graves in the backyard might strike the ore below, as if la brigada

swinging machetes to clear the road might remember the last uprising.

 

I know you are not God. I have the proof: seven pounds of ashes in a box

on my bookshelf. Gods do not die, and yet I want you to be God again.

Stride from the crowd to seize the president’s arm before another roll

of paper towels sails away. Thunder Spanish obscenities in his face.

Banish him to a roofless rainstorm in Utuado, so he unravels, one soaked

sheet after another, till there is nothing left but his cardboard heart.

 

I promised myself I would stop talking to you, white box of gray grit.

You were deaf even before you died. Hear my promise now: I will take you

to the mountains, where houses lost like ships at sea rise blue and yellow

from the mud. I will open my hands. I will scatter your ashes in Utuado.

Aimee Nezhukumatathil - Are All the Break-Ups in Your Poems Real?

If by real you mean as real as a shark tooth stuck

in your heel, the wetness of a finished lollipop stick,

the surprise of a thumbtack in your purse—

then Yes, every last page is true, every nuance,

bit, and bite. Wait. I have made them up—all of them—

and when I say I am married, it means I married

all of them, a whole neighborhood of past loves.

Can you imagine the number of bouquets, how many

slices of cake? Even now, my husbands plan a great meal

for us—one chops up some parsley, one stirs a bubbling pot

on the stove. One changes the baby, and one sleeps

in a fat chair. One flips through the newspaper, another

whistles while he shaves in the shower, and every single

one of them wonders what time I am coming home.

Christopher Marlowe - The Passionate Shepherd to His Love

Come live with me and be my love,

And we will all the pleasures prove

That valleys, groves, hills, and fields,

Woods, or steepy mountain yields.

 

And we will sit upon the rocks,

Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks,

By shallow rivers to whose falls

Melodious birds sing madrigals.

 

And I will make thee beds of roses

And a thousand fragrant posies,

A cap of flowers, and a kirtle

Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle;

 

A gown made of the finest wool

Which from our pretty lambs we pull;

Fair lined slippers for the cold,

With buckles of the purest gold;

 

A belt of straw and ivy buds,

With coral clasps and amber studs:

And if these pleasures may thee move,

Come live with me, and be my love.

 

The shepherds’ swains shall dance and sing

For thy delight each May morning:

If these delights thy mind may move,

Then live with me and be my love.