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luís soares

Blog do escritor Luís Soares

Lawrence Ferlinghetti - Underwear

I didn’t get much sleep last night

thinking about underwear

Have you ever stopped to consider   

underwear in the abstract   

When you really dig into it

some shocking problems are raised   

Underwear is something   

we all have to deal with   

Everyone wears

some kind of underwear

The Pope wears underwear I hope

The Governor of Louisiana   

wears underwear

I saw him on TV

He must have had tight underwear

He squirmed a lot

Underwear can really get you in a bind

You have seen the underwear ads

for men and women

so alike but so different

Women’s underwear holds things up

Men’s underwear holds things down   

Underwear is one thing   

men and women have in common   

Underwear is all we have between us

You have seen the three-color pictures

with crotches encircled

to show the areas of extra strength

and three-way stretch

promising full freedom of action

Don’t be deceived

It’s all based on the two-party system

which doesn’t allow much freedom of choice   

the way things are set up   

America in its Underwear

struggles thru the night

Underwear controls everything in the end   

Take foundation garments for instance   

They are really fascist forms

of underground government

making people believe

something but the truth

telling you what you can or can’t do   

Did you ever try to get around a girdle   

Perhaps Non-Violent Action

is the only answer

Did Gandhi wear a girdle?

Did Lady Macbeth wear a girdle?

Was that why Macbeth murdered sleep?   

And that spot she was always rubbing—

Was it really in her underwear?

Modern anglosaxon ladies

must have huge guilt complexes

always washing and washing and washing   

Out damned spot

Underwear with spots very suspicious   

Underwear with bulges very shocking   

Underwear on clothesline a great flag of freedom   

Someone has escaped his Underwear   

May be naked somewhere


But don’t worry

Everybody’s still hung up in it

There won’t be no real revolution

And poetry still the underwear of the soul   

And underwear still covering

a multitude of faults

in the geological sense—

strange sedimentary stones, inscrutable cracks!   

If I were you I’d keep aside

an oversize pair of winter underwear   

Do not go naked into that good night   

And in the meantime

keep calm and warm and dry

No use stirring ourselves up prematurely   

‘over Nothing’

Move forward with dignity

hand in vest

Don’t get emotional

And death shall have no dominion   

There’s plenty of time my darling

Are we not still young and easy

Don’t shout

Adrienne Rich - Quarto

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


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


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?


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


Jericho Brown - Duplex from Windfall Room on Vimeo.

The duplex is a form I invented. It's a fusion of the sonnet, the ghazal, and the blues. The video was taken in my den, which I'm mostly excited about because growing up I never imagined living in a space that afforded for two living rooms, one of which middle class folks like to call a "den."

Jericho Brown is the recipient of fellowships from the Guggenheim Foundation, the Radcliffe Institute for Advanced Study at Harvard, and the National Endowment for the Arts. Brown’s first book, Please (New Issues 2008), won the American Book Award. His second book, The New Testament (Copper Canyon 2014), won the Anisfield-Wolf Book Award. His third collection is The Tradition (Copper Canyon 2019). His poems have appeared in Buzzfeed, The New Republic, The New York Times, The New Yorker, The Paris Review, TIME magazine, Tin House, and several volumes of The Best American Poetry. He is an associate professor and the director of the Creative Writing Program at Emory University.

Published by Windfall Room

Ada Limón - The Long Ride

Ma’s in the wind-pummeled double-wide
waiting for the retired policemen
to bring their retired police horses
to the ranch. She’s at the window now
describing the rain, the two-horse trailer,
and also, how sometimes she and my stepdad
talk about death for a long time.
How imagining death can make it easier
to live and I agree and say, It’s called die
before you die.
What is being delivered
here is a horse who’s had a hard life.
A large quarter horse named Seattle --
a horse with a city name who protected a city,
who was spooked outside the baseball stadium
when a shopping bag wrapped around his leg,
a plastic thing versus a muscle-bound animal
in a busy crowd and a flash accident killed
a man. But then, I wonder, what for the horse?
Never to be ridden, stuck numb in a stall,
lightning bugs torturing the poor blood?
I bet that horse might have wanted to
die before he died. But not yet.
What is being delivered here is release.
Today, his officer-rider is finally retired, too,
with an old badge on the dashboard
and a fine plan to drive all the way to Montana,
where the rider has bought a ranch for his horse,
Seattle. The rider, and his horse, with his city-name,
and his forgiven city-mistakes, are charting
a clear new territory of absolution, and it makes
Ma and me happy. How good it is to love
live things, even when what they’ve done
is terrible, how much we each want to be
the pure exonerated creature, to be turned loose
into our own wide open without a single
harness of sin to stop us.

Alison C. Rollins - Water Lilies

I am thirty,
wading out into a deep
body of water.

My favorite form of
loss is to swallow.
What have I to lose

this time around? Last July
my legs were draped on either
side of my husband’s head.

My thighs hung like a scarf
about his neck, his hair
burrowed into my privates.

I’d always longed
to see a dolphin’s vagina.
As a child, I wanted to be a marine

biologist. At Sea World, I rode
on my father’s shoulders
held on to his ears for dear life.

I—upswept in his current,
his arms filled with his own blood.
Now they are gone, both the father

and the husband in this story,
their closets emptied save for
tins of shoe polish and handfuls

of naked wire hangers. I am Medea.
Euripides takes up my voice
like a pebble for safekeeping,

beads of water run off my face
like grief. Afloat, I rehearse
how to mourn like a stone.

My breasts skip atop the surface,
aqueducts of milk rooted
beneath the skin. The river

holds me in its mouth
like a song. I in turn
leave it, troubled.


Water Lilies” has never been published and by no means does it feel “completed” to me. It is a poem that I have set aside to potentially revisit or use as a graveyard to extract lines from for another future work. At this point, “Water Lilies” is just as unfinished, in-process, and chaotic as my daily attempt to stay alive.

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




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




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




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




“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)




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:




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




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.



Langston Hughes - I, Too

I, too, sing America.


I am the darker brother.

They send me to eat in the kitchen

When company comes,

But I laugh,

And eat well,

And grow strong.



I’ll be at the table

When company comes.

Nobody’ll dare

Say to me,

“Eat in the kitchen,”




They’ll see how beautiful I am

And be ashamed—


I, too, am America.

David Ignatow - I'm a Depressed Poem

You are reading me now and thanks. I know I feel a bit better and if you will stay with me a little longer, perhaps take me home with you and introduce me to your friends, I could be delighted and change my tone. I lie in a desk drawer, hardly ever getting out to see the light and be held. It makes me feel so futile for having given birth to myself in anticipation. I miss a social life. I know I made myself for that. It was the start of me. I'm grateful that you let me talk as much as this. You probably understand, from experience; gone through something like it yourself which may be why you hold me this long. I've made you thoughtful and sad and now there are two of us. I think it's fun.

Alexandria Peary - The Architecture of a Love Poemi

Love's balustrade, love's balcony

             a few iron words that can be seen anywhere still

in grocery lists, in laundry hung between two objects,

             an e-mail, in an apology, in a thought about the weather

these rusty words, these rusting gates

              before a breath, Standing in the cold morning

on a cold blue stairs, with a curlicue of coffee

              you look at the word Love written on the

side of the Pharmacy in cherry-vanilla flavored cursive

              because this is where a love poem once stood,

what I am saying right now is secretly built over

              a love poem, the fossils of a cupola,

pink buildings with red hyphens and dashes

              and three red dots, You, second person pink

with shutters you could open with a fingernail

              like in an advent calendar to see sticker scenes

of apartments inside: a radiator, a bare arm,

              two cups by themselves on a table

The mind of the attic still persists up there

              meditative water

and the chairs talking quietly to one another

              It's now pink rubble, rhyming bricks, and an illicit balcony

the heart had such a fancy elevator

              that it started to look like a bird cage

and once in a lemon-scented fog

               near springtime-fresh trees, I heard two people say,

"Yellow kiss-shaped flowers, telephone flowers,

              are falling from my mouth now"

Now, it's a set of blue and white checkered apartment buildings

              math problems that are eight stories high

a long division jutting as pollution into the sky

              laundry, cooking spills, gasoline shirts

commas, theories or arguments of boyfriends & girlfriends

              boyfriends & boyfriends, girlfriends & girlfriends,

all hanging out of the window that you opened.

Morgan Parker - The High Priestess of Soul’s Sunday Morning Visit to the Wall of Respect

The Impressionism wing strikes me as too
dainty for my mood, except for one oil painting
by Gustave Caillebotte, Calf’s Head and Ox Tongue,
which is described in the wall text as 
“visually unpleasant.” A bust of an African woman
bums me out. This year, I cried 
at everyone’s kitchen table, 
I spit on the street and was late on purpose and stepped
in glass and my dog died and I saw
minuses over and over. I’ll figure it out.
I let a man walk away and then
another one. It has taken me exactly this long
to realize I could have done something else.
I'm being repetitive now but do you ever
hate yourself?


Calf's Head and Ox Tongue Date (c. 1882) Gustave Caillebotte French, 1848-1894