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luís soares

Blog do escritor Luís Soares

Frank Lima - Incidents of Travel in Poetry

Happy Birthday Kenneth Koch/Feb 27
We went to all those places where they restore sadness and joy
and call it art. We were piloted by Auden who became
Unbearably acrimonious when we dropped off Senghor into the
steamy skies of his beloved West Africa. The termites and ants
were waiting for him to unearth the sun in Elissa. The clouds
were as cool as a dog’s nose pressed against our cheeks. I
notice your eggshell skin is as creamy as a lion’s armpit as we
cross the horizon on strands of Yeats’ silver hair. There is a
light coffee flame in his eyes guiding us like an old Irish house
cleaner holding a candle in a black and white English movie.
Yeats’ lips look like an angry Rimbaud illuminating poetry with
his youth and vigorous sunlight. He knew eternity would vanish
the sun at dusk. He caught it with a rainbow tied to his finger.
There was nothing left after that. We cross the equator
heading north following Emily Dickinson’s black bag containing
stems of her longer poems preserved in darkness and memory
like wild pearls thrown overboard to avoid capture by Spanish
pirates. The islands below float by like water hearts in a child’s
aquarium. We are candy wrappers being blown across the
waxed floors of poetry. We land on the Brooklyn Bridge.
Whitman’s past-port face is grinning at the nineteenth century
in the thorny arms of Gerard Manley Hopkins whose head was
set on fire by God’s little hands. The hands that circumcised
the world. Gertrude Stein is a match flaring on a young
woman’s pillow whose birthmarks have been stolen. We cross
the green Atlantic into World War One. We are met by Rilke
dressed in his Orpheus uniform wearing white sonnet gloves
that once belonged to a stone angel. Rilke offers us a glass of
amontillado made from Lorca’s private stock of gypsy tears.
The sherry is not quite as dry as Wallace Stevens’ lush mango
metaphors of familiar objects. Although Stevens’ poems are
fragrant, there is a lingering afterthought of Pound on the
tongue. Pound collected his misty feelings to make raindrops
into European and American poetry. Vagueness became as
sharp as a pencil. Our blue box is not allowed to attend
Apollinaire’s birthday party held by the august Académie
on the Eiffel Tower. He is being awarded the “Golden
Frog Souffle Award” and a one-way ticket to the Greek and
Roman past to spend afternoons with Williams filling wheel-
barrows with the twentieth century. Both Apollinaire and
Williams could hail a cab on Madison Avenue in any country.
After the bash we toured Paris and London with D.H. Lawrence
who kept stopping to relieve himself of the great mysteries of
life whenever we went by a Bavarian gentian plant. He claimed
he was writing poetry for his new book: Acts of Attention for
Love Poems
. Eliot was rebuilding London when we left. It
reminded him of Detroit or Cincinnati or Saint Louis. He was
removing despair from the weather. He thought it affected
people’s minds and did not want to overload Mayakovsky’s
emptiness with old English churches that pray for water heaters
and cloudless nights. Mayakovsky, on the other hand, insisted
there were bugs in Russia who could write poetry just as
interestingly as Eliot. The Russian winter is elegant cruelty
compared with the English milk-toast weather: “A man without
a cloud in his trousers is not a man.” Eliot thought this was the
most boring statement he had ever heard. Although
Cummings’ poems appear unintentional on the surface, he did
not act like a drunken amputee at the dinner table and always
said pleasant things that came out of nowhere. His
conversation was experimental but logical and he investigated
words, mixing them on paper with a pencil. Cummings was all
etcetera after a few drinks. We move the sun to South
America. Neruda had become an organic poet writing about
the fulcra of yes and no. He wasn’t home when we got there,
so we went over to Allen’s for some microbiotic poetry. As
usual, Allen was rolling incense and howling at America. Allen
was always mystical and beautiful when he walked on the
Lower East Side. When he stepped into the old Jewish
pavement, he mystified the habitués. David Shapiro, the Djinn
of subatomic poetry, asked Allen what was the future of poetry
in the borough of Queens? Allen placed the palm of his right
hand on David’s glistening forehead and said: “David, don’t you
know? The future has no future. It is very old and doesn’t
worry about its future anymore, because it has so little left of
it.” Allen made suicide exhilarating when he wrote Kaddish.
Finally, suicide could talk about the pain of living with
unbearable beauty. Beauty was Frank O’Hara talking to Second
Avenue with a diamond in his head. We were the personal
details in Frank’s harem of private lives when LeRoi insisted on
becoming black, abandoning us for a noble cause, according to
Frank, who loved Imamu Amiri Baraka. We were the details in
Frank’s poems and living one’s life was a detail in Frank’s life.
John Ashbery arrived from Paris on a plane made of expensive
suits, shirts, and ties. Like his poems, he was sparkling and
squeaky clean, dressed in elegant language. He is the
daydream that had become a poet. His subject is to have no
subject. Perhaps a casual reference to someone special. He is
a poet of the less obvious in life: the sestina made of clouds.
We crossed the equator on our way to a cocktail party for Gary
Snyder. There is no other life for his outdoor poems,
hitchhiking on hands-on love. Gary seems to have time to
write poems about the notes in his life. Kenneth, on the other
hand, has a paper cup full of wonderful poems. He can write a
poem about a cathedral living in a paper cup. Kenneth travels
everywhere with his paper cup. At a certain time of day,
Kenneth finds room in his paper cup for perfect days and
perfect moments:
Perfect moments when Frank spoke to us.
Perfect moments when Allen spoke to us.
And they sang to us
with human wings
upon which we sleep.

How To Be Both.

83.Ali Smith-How to be both jacket.jpg

Estou numa daquelas fases em que odeio (não de verdade, sendo honesto, adoro) escritores que dominam a língua em que escrevem com supremo à vontade, mesmo sendo, em toda a probabilidade, uma mestria fruto de intenso e tortuoso labor como, diz-me a experiência, muitas vezes acontece.

É o caso do Richard Powers com o seu 'Orfeo' ou de Joseph O'Neill com o seu 'The Dog', do maravilhoso 'History of the Rain' de Nial Williams ou do sombrio 'Wolf in a White Van' de John Darnielle (vocalista dos The Mountain Goats), do grande tecedor de histórias que é David Mitchell com o 'The Bone Clocks' ou Emily St. John Mandell no 'Station Eleven' que acabei ontem. Algumas das coisas que li nos últimos três meses.

Atirei-me sem pausa para respirar, chain-reader me confesso, ao 'How To Be Both' da Ali Smith, motivo deste post. Sem querer estragar a leitura a possíveis leitores, entrei pela narrativa guiado pelo ponto de vista de um pintor renascentista já morto, que observa como fantasma (?) visitantes a um museu, olhando um seu quadro. Daí segue para a rua, onde o mundo moderno o surpreende. E aí me prendi numa frase em que se lamenta da ausência de cavalos:

What kind of a journey can you make with no creature to befriend you to let your going anywhere reveal itself as the matter of trust and faith going somewhere always is?

Leiam de novo. É uma bela frase. Uma daquelas frases. E fiquei a pensar. Talvez ele descubra que, tal como os cavalos, também os automóveis, os autocarros, comboios, barcos, aviões exigem que estabeleçamos com eles uma relação, uma fé e uma confiança, para que nos levem onde queremos chegar pois que isso faz parte da viagem.

Era isto. Logo continuo a ler.

The Weight of Mountains

The Weight of Mountains from Studiocanoe on Vimeo.

This is a short film about the processes by which mountains are created and eventually destroyed. It is based upon the work of British geographer L. Dudley Stamp, and was shot in Iceland.

Physical geography and geology is an enormous and fascinating subject, and this film only touches upon the surface of the discipline. For those who wish to further advance their knowledge in this field, additional reading and research is recommended.

Music and Film by Temujin Doran

Animation courtesy of NASA/Goddard Space Flight Center Scientific Visualization Studio

David Monteleone - A Modern Odyssey

"Modern Odyssey" is a project made during a real, non-invented, journey on the cargo ship Nordic Odyssey, transporting 70,000 tons of iron ore from the Russian port city Murmansk. It waded through the ice of the Arctic waters, led by an icebreaker, then crossed foggy Bering Strait and continued along the far-eastern parts of Russia and Japan before arriving to a newly built port on the shore of China. The trip took place in July and beginning of August of 2012 and lasted around one month. There were only 23 people on board of a ship 225 meters long, weighting around 40,000 tons – five Ukrainians officers, one ice pilot from Russia and seventeen Filipino seafarers. At first this journey seemed to be a unique chance to experience extraordinary landscapes and route (it's only two years since it has been opened to navigation due to an increasing melting of ice caused by global warming). Though very soon the physical movement from one point to another becomes a journey into one's consciousness and inward world.

David Monteleone

Há também um vídeo mais explicativo e com belas imagens que pode ser visto aqui.

"Have Gone To Patagonia"

In 1972, Bruce Chatwin was hired by the Sunday Times Magazine as an adviser on art and architecture. His association with the magazine cultivated his narrative skills and he travelled on many international assignments, writing on such subjects as Algerian migrant workers and the Great Wall of China, and interviewing such people as André Malraux, in France, and Nadezhda Mandelstam, in the Soviet Union.

In 1972, Chatwin interviewed the 93-year-old architect and designer Eileen Gray in her Paris salon, where he noticed a map of the area of South America called Patagonia which she had painted. "I've always wanted to go there," Bruce told her. "So have I," she replied, "go there for me." Two years later, in November 1974, Chatwin flew out to Lima in Peru, and reached Patagonia a month later. When he arrived there he severed himself from the newspaper with a telegram: "Have gone to Patagonia."

He spent six months there, a trip which resulted in the book In Patagonia (1977), which established his reputation as a travel writer.

O texto vem da Wikipedia. A fotografia do Chatwin é provavelmente a mais famosa dele, feita por Lord Snowdon em 1982. Reencontrei-a no loverofbeauty. A capa do livro é da primeira edição.

Um dia na Índia.

Os dias na Índia parecem ter muita comida. E isso só pode ser uma coisa boa.


A Day in India from The Perennial Plate on Vimeo.

This short film compiles three weeks of filming, traveling and eating in India into "one day".

Created by:
In Partnership with Intrepid Travel:
Filmed & edited by:
Daniel Klein ( )
Mirra Fine (

Music by:
The Guadaloop:
After Effects by:
Filmed on 5d Mark iii w Canon 24-70, 70-200 2.8 L