quinta-feira, 27 de setembro de 2012

Rua do Século, 79 - Frederico Lourenço

Os gradeamentos das janelas
negam a quem as contempla da rua
qualquer sugestão de vida
a ser vivida por trás das grades.
Os caixilhos em ferro forjado
sugerem locutórios de um convento
da mais ascética austeridade,
como se o espaço (cujo acesso
as grades peremptoriamente vedam)
fosse votado por inteiro a extremos
exacerbados de misticismo e de penitência.
Mas também se pressentem salões escuros,
onde paira sempre o cheiro fresco a encerado,
ou o perfume de rosas e noz moscada;
paredes revestidas de damasco,
cobertas de grandes telas,
paisagens campestres e naturezas mortas.
Medalhões de talha dourada, segurados
por fitas de seda listrada a duas cores;
silhuetas de damas coroadas de peruca,
fantasmas da corte da Rainha Louca,
imóveis nas suas molduras de tartaruga e charão.

quarta-feira, 26 de setembro de 2012

The Indoors is Endless - Tomas Tranströmer

It’s spring in 1827, Beethoven
hoists his death-mask and sails off.
The grindstones are turning in Europe’s windmills.
The wild geese are flying northwards.

Here is the north, here is Stockholm
swimming palaces and hovels.

The logs in the royal fireplace
collapse from Attention to At Ease.

Peace prevails, vaccine and potatoes,
but the city wells breathe heavily.

Privy barrels in sedan chairs like paschas
are carried by night over the North Bridge.

The cobblestones make them stagger
mamselles loafers gentlemen.

Implacably still, the sign-board
with the smoking blackamoor.

So many islands, so much rowing
with invisible oars against the current!

The channels open up, April May
and sweet honey dribbling June.

The heat reaches islands far out.
The village doors are open, except one.

The snake-clock’s pointer licks the silence.
The rock slopes glow with geology’s patience.

It happened like this, or almost.
It is an obscure family tale

about Erik, done down by a curse
disabled by a bullet through the soul.

He went to town, met an enemy
and sailed home sick and grey.

Keeps to his bed all that summer.
The tools on the wall are in mourning.

He lies awake, hears the woolly flutter
of night moths, his moonlight comrades.

His strength ebbs out, he pushes in vain
against the iron-bound tomorrow.

And the God of the depths cries out of the depths
‘Deliver me! Deliver yourself!’

All the surface action turns inwards.
He’s taken apart, put together.

The wind rises and the wild rose bushes
catch on the fleeing light.

The future opens, he looks into
the self-rotating kaleidoscope

sees indistinct fluttering faces
family faces not yet born.

By mistake his gaze strikes me
as I walk around here in Washington

among grandiose houses where only
every second column bears weight.

White buildings in crematorium style
where the dream of the poor turns to ash.

The gentle downward slope gets steeper
and imperceptibly becomes an abyss.

translated by Robin Fulton
'New and Collected Poems', 1997, Bloodaxe Books. 
Tomas Tranströmer

terça-feira, 25 de setembro de 2012

A poem by Geoff Hilsabeck

I spoke with the ugly gas pump,
how to plant an infinite manner: 
as soon as the painters more or less. 
Sorry, I prefer

Geoff Hilsabeck, more here.

quinta-feira, 20 de setembro de 2012

August - Yona Harvey

swatting mosquitoes
I knelt beside daddy's deck
as afternoon unraveled
like a volleyball net.
Our lawn recurred five times
up the lane, every yard's
tomato plants patterned
after the same magazine.
Granny Burns sighed
at my aunts & mother
fluttering like insects
among paper plates,
baked beans, potato salad.
Too shy to dance, I watched
my cousins' bodies bob
& pop like pogo sticks
to Roger Troutman
& Zapp, each proud step
an electric prayer.
I searched old boxes
for badminton racquets
as beads of sweat clung
to my small breasts
like a boy's mouth,
almost happy
being asked to help.

Retirado daqui.

Um poema de Hélia Correia

A terceira miséria é esta, a de hoje.
A de quem já não ouve nem pergunta.
A de quem não recorda. E, ao contrário
Do orgulhoso Péricles, se torna
Num entre os mais, num entre os que se entregam,
Nos que vão misturar-se como um líquido
Num líquido maior, perdida a forma,
Desfeita em pó a estátua.
A Terceira Miséria, Relógio d'Água, 2012

terça-feira, 18 de setembro de 2012

Manhattan pela linha mais longa - José Duarte

na cidade,
a lugares,
o sentimento de
que não estava
em sítio
entre todas
as hipóteses,
umas mãos
na ponte,
um jardim.
E sempre
o chão
como âncora,
para uma
pela linha
mais longa.

Da série Erasures 

José Duarte

«Sê lenha» - Ana Marques Gastão

Enquanto a faca corta o alimento,
a boca atrasa o corte, o paladar,
a sorte, a criança devora o que tens
e a vontade pede-te: «sê lenha».
Anda, suporta teu corpo de ferida
cicatriz ou nome, és esqueleto bravio
carne e voragem, sino que ressoa,
te ensurdece e desmorona.

Do mar, a terra, da terra a água,
do fogo, o ar, só é exterior o interior
que se evapora em solução iodada
e te abafa no fumo metálico e molda
uma sombra, o ombro, a mão. Mas olha,
vê, escuta o som impaciente da lenha
afundada no sal, conta a história,
repete a única história que te faz viver.

In Adornos, 2011.

domingo, 16 de setembro de 2012

Os livros - Manuel António Pina

É então isto um livro,
este, como dizer?, murmúrio,
este rosto virado para dentro de
alguma coisa escura que ainda não existe
que, se uma mão subitamente
inocente a toca,
se abre desamparadamente
como uma boca
falando com a nossa voz?
É isto um livro,
esta espécie de coração (o nosso coração)
dizendo “eu” entre nós e nós?

de Como se Desenha uma Casa, 2011, Assírio & Alvim.

sexta-feira, 14 de setembro de 2012

Tens que largar a mão - Tiago Bettencourt

Anne Sexton - The Room of My Life

in the room of my life
the objects keep changing.
Ashtrays to cry into,
the suffering brother of the wood walls,
the forty-eight keys of the typewriter
each an eyeball that is never shut,
the books, each a contestant in a beauty contest,   
the black chair, a dog coffin made of Naugahyde,   
the sockets on the wall
waiting like a cave of bees,
the gold rug
a conversation of heels and toes,
the fireplace
a knife waiting for someone to pick it up,
the sofa, exhausted with the exertion of a whore,   
the phone
two flowers taking root in its crotch,
the doors
opening and closing like sea clams,
the lights
poking at me,
lighting up both the soil and the laugh.
The windows,
the starving windows
that drive the trees like nails into my heart.   
Each day I feed the world out there
although birds explode
right and left.
I feed the world in here too,
offering the desk puppy biscuits.
However, nothing is just what it seems to be.   
My objects dream and wear new costumes,
compelled to, it seems, by all the words in my hands   
and the sea that bangs in my throat.

Anne Sexton - 'The Room of My Life', from The Complete Poems of Anne Sexton (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1981)

terça-feira, 11 de setembro de 2012

The Day - Kenneth Goldsmith

Metropolitan Forecast

          Metropolitan Forecast
          today Less humid, sunshine
          High 79. Noticeably less humid air will filter into the metropolitan region on. Brisk winds from the northwest. High pressure building east from the Great Lakes will promote mainly sunny skies. Daytime readings will peak in the lower 80’s.
          tonight Clear, lighter winds
          Low 62. Skies will be clear overnight as high pressure crests near the Middle Atlantic Coast. Humidity will remain low, and temperatures will fall to around 60 degrees in many spots.
          tomorrow Mainly sunny
          High 76. Sunshine and just a few clouds will fill the sky. Breezes will turn and blow from the south ahead of a cold front approaching from Canada.


          e2 the new york times, tuesday, september 11, 2001
          ARTS ABROAD
          Continued From First Arts Page
          On Islam, Mr. Houellebecq went still further, deriding his estranged mother for converting to Islam and proclaiming that, while all monotheistic religions were “cretinous,” “the most stupid religion is Islam.” And he added: “When you read the Koran, you give up. At least the Bible is
          Sexual tourism
          and inflammatory
          remarks about
          very beautiful because Jews have an extraordinary literary talent.” And later, noting that “Islam is a dangerous religion,” he said it was condemned to disappear, not only because God does not exist but also because it was being undermined by capitalism.
Poetry (July/August 2009). Retirado daqui.

segunda-feira, 3 de setembro de 2012

Explicação da Eternidade - José Luís Peixoto

devagar, o tempo transforma tudo em tempo. 
o ódio transforma-se em tempo, o amor 
transforma-se em tempo, a dor transforma-se 
em tempo. 

os assuntos que julgámos mais profundos, 
mais impossíveis, mais permanentes e imutáveis, 
transformam-se devagar em tempo. 

por si só, o tempo não é nada. 
a idade de nada é nada. 
a eternidade não existe. 
no entanto, a eternidade existe. 

os instantes dos teus olhos parados sobre mim eram eternos. 
os instantes do teu sorriso eram eternos. 
os instantes do teu corpo de luz eram eternos. 

foste eterna até ao fim. 

José Luís Peixoto, in "A Casa, A Escuridão"