sábado, 31 de dezembro de 2016

LITTLE RACKET - Anne Carson

Sunday evening, evening gray. All day the storm did not quite storm. Clouds closed in, sulked, spat. We put off swimming. Took in the chairs. Finally (about seven) a rumbling high up. A wind went round the trees tossing each once and releasing arbitrary rivulets of cool air downward, this wind which came apart, the parts swaying out, descending, bumping around the yard awhile not quite on the count then a single chord ran drenched across the roof, the porch and stopped. We all breathed. Maybe that’s it, maybe it’s over, the weatherman is often wrong these days, we can still go swimming (roll call? glimpse of sun?) when all at once the sluices opened, broke a knot and smashed the sky to bits, which fell and keep falling even now as dark comes on and fabled night is managing its manes and the birds, I can hear from their little racket, the birds are burning up and down like holy fools somewhere inside it—far in where they keep the victim, smeared, stinking, hence the pageantry, hence the pitchy cries, don’t keep saying you don’t hear it too.

Retirado daqui


quarta-feira, 21 de dezembro de 2016

Present - W. S. Merwin

As they were leaving the garden
one of the angels bent down to them and whispered

I am to give you this
as you are leaving the garden

I do not know waht it is
or what it is for
what you will do with it

you will not be able to keep it
but you will not be able 

to keep anything 
yet both reached at once

for the present
and when their hands met
´
they laughed

From Garden Time. W. S. Merwin. Canyon Press, 2016

terça-feira, 13 de dezembro de 2016

Um poema de Vasco Gato

A tarde despedaçou-se
e nunca houve outro anseio
senão esta claridade sem sol,
a lenta supressão de uma morada.
Espiamos as naves que se soletram
a ouvido nenhum,
tocando um do outro
os dedos mais
sinceros.

Estamos prontos para singrar
na noite do nosso
desassossego.

Napule. Tea For One, 2011.

segunda-feira, 28 de novembro de 2016

A velocidade da luz - Manuel Gusmão

Há uma rotação do teu corpo
ou de um aparte dele que está pelo todo
e fora dos eixos do mundo. 
Rodas a partir da cintura, estendes um braço,
há um músculo que se ilumina, uma onda
vertical em que tu própria te subisses;
então uma perna flecte-se, e o outro pé fica em 
ponta
oblíquo sobre o mundo que nesse instante 
se suspende.

Teatros do Tempo. Editorial Caminho, 2001.

sexta-feira, 18 de novembro de 2016

A poem by Andrés Neuman

El Jardinero

Aprendí con mi abuelo a plantar árboles.
«Los sauces necesitan
más agua, Andrés, que tú,
y sus raícesal principio no son
demasiado profundas.
A veces crecen rápido 
y otras veces se estancan en la tierra,
asustados del aire.» 
Hoy no existe ni abuelo ni país
ni tampoco ese niño, pero queda
aquel sauce encorvado al que –me digo–
Andrés, hay que cuidar,
estas raíces frágiles,
este miedo a la altura de la vida. 

Retrieved from here.

segunda-feira, 14 de novembro de 2016

quarta-feira, 9 de novembro de 2016

A Southern Wind - Rickey Laurentiis

Quiet as a seed, and as guarded,
our walking took the shape of two people
uneasy together. I had the feeling
that on the anxious incline of that hill we gave the hill
a reason to be. What loneliness, what
privacy was in that? Hey, I said. Race me to the top?
The is when I nearly tripped on the sly earth,
an earth shaping to itself again. A stone?
But, no, picking it up, bringing the wormed-through
black flesh of it to my height, I knew it for 
an apple and gnashed and let the juices freak and down
my face. Don't ask me why I did it. I know. 
I know there are poisons like these we have 
to feed each other, promises we try to hold--
though how can they be contained? I wanted to give you 
what I could of me. To be personal, without 
confession. I wanted to believe in the constancy of that hill.
Daylight was tiring. The air, secret, alone.
I won, you said. You did, I said. So we stood there.

sexta-feira, 21 de outubro de 2016

Lifesaving - Wes Lee

Lifesaving
They don’t do it anymore,
breathe into the mouth to save.
We had learnt it reluctantly,
lined up beside a recumbent dummy,
waiting to take our turn to kneel at that mouth.
The simplest things disturb –
at night when the fluoros shut off and the cover is pulled,
the tiles swabbed – there it lies open,
not even a ventriloquist’s dummy
is so exposed.

Retirado daqui.

segunda-feira, 17 de outubro de 2016

From Let them eat chaos - Kate Tempest

The squats we used to party in
are flats we can’t afford
The dumps we did our dancing in
have all been restored
Pints are up two quid
the staff are beautiful and bored
You think it’s coming round here?
It’s falling on its sword.
It don’t feel like home no more
I don’t speak the lingo.
Since when was this a winery?
It used to be the bingo.
I’ve walked these streets for all my life
they know me like no other.
But the streets have changed.
I no longer feel them
shudder
Alright alright, I get the gist.
Whose city is this?
It doesn’t want me no more.
I’ve had a glimpse
into the future.
It stinks.
London’s a walled fort,
it’s all for the rich,
if you fall short
you fall.
You know where the door is.
Board up the broken,
do it up,
sell it back
make it bespoke.
It’s all out in the open.
It’s fine, man,
hike the price right up
and smile with your friends
in the posh new nightclubs.
My streets have been dug up.
Re-paved.
New routes for commuters.
The landscape has changed
I’m looking for the old tags,
the graffs that once meant
safe territory
but it seems
every hieroglyph gets whitewashed
eventually.


Kate Tempest. Let them eat chaos. Picador, 2016.

sexta-feira, 7 de outubro de 2016

Alimento Imperfeito - Ana Marques Gastão

Possa eu tornar-me pedra,
de pedra areia, da rocha
grão, do diamante brilho.

Endureça eu como concha
de água matricial, minério
de cobre, coração cristalino.

Seja eu alimento imperfeito
de clareza perfeita, mar denso, 
condensado, astral e puro.

Seja eu mel coagulado
d'orvalho e ouro vivo.

Ana Marques Gastão. Adornos. Lisboa: D. Quixote, 2011.

domingo, 2 de outubro de 2016

A poem by Crispin Best

anyway
i am riding lifts on my 30th birthday 
somewhere you are all of my direct messages and
a little drunk with you on a train would be nice
anyway they washed the floor of the museum
so my footprint is everywhere on my 30th birthday
and my shoe bottoms must be very beautiful 
somewhere i am a kite when you slam me into the sand
still
anyway i am sweating in the museum lonely
somewhere i am sweating not touching butterflies in the
enclosure too
place your animal parts close by
on my 30th birthday
feel free
anyway this unshrinkable distance between us
still
anyway your knees in the morning
somewhere i am sweating quietly learning how to pick up a butterfly
on my 30th birthday
after i nearly step on a butterfly in the enclosure too
there are chrysalises with us here
touch my chest in my imagination
anyway take off your belt with me
on my 30th birthday
still
somewhere i am sweating watching the pattern of your bra
complicate the front of your blouse
never stop

Retirado daqui.

quinta-feira, 29 de setembro de 2016

Rusted Blue - Paula Campos

III

Ya has estado aqui antes.

El mismo cielo óxido,

los mismos tejados

sosteniendo

todo el pies de la tarde.


Quizás sólo seamos

esta luz deshecha

encontrándose,

desencontrándose.


¿Por qué tengo tanto frío?


IV

Fue la lluvia

la que nos hizo volver.


Nadie había visto aún

el silencio

posado en tus rodillas,

tu empeño en buscar siempre lo perdido.


La palabra muda

y toda la noche sobre los hombros.


Te acercaste 

- con cuidado - 

a la ventana.


El cielo era un incendio.


VII


Hasta el agua a veces.

Luz sumergida

bailando en el vacío.


Roaz el cuerpo inmóvil

y las flores duelen en la boca.


La luna es apenas

una señal de humo

en el horizonte.



Poemas gentilmente cedidos pela autora. 

domingo, 25 de setembro de 2016

Nuno Moura

é de origem entronca e de pais separos
e teve mais de noventa mil pessoas delírias
no estádio das antas para o lançamento
do seu último livro de poesia.
 
seguiu em turné por paranhos bessa
e depois são luis pelo sul
tendo uma andança de três ponto um milhões
só em vendas estádias.
 
Somando a viagem recitária
as exportações para o resto do mundo
e o residual fotocópio
totobola para cima de quinze ponto sete milhões
de livros.
 
só em receitas publicitárias com telecele pêtê cêpê
renô náique sequipe e ibêéle
fala-se de valores na casa dos champálimôs.
 
portugal é um país de poetas ricos.
 
a poesia dá dinheiro a portugal.

Nuno Moura. Nova Asmática Portuguesa. Mariposa Azual, 1999.

segunda-feira, 22 de agosto de 2016

Carmen Berenguer

después
ahora que ha pasado un tiempo de aquella nube 
ahora que puedo mirar un tramo el recorrido
ahora mismo que me sujeto el pelo que cabe en mi mano
ahora que miro su hueco y veo la luz a través de
mis muñecas
y cabe aquello que no querría descifrar y sin embargo le debo haber hoy
ahora limpiado la mancha como siempre y observo 
el poema está esperando en el medio de este rincón de la pieza
ahora que cepillo su caída y vuelvo lo vuelvo a retocar
ahora que me agacho a recoger la pinza de mis vellos
y regreso sobre mis pasos una y otra vez a mirar su brillo
de los mismos objetos desparramados en el suelo
ahora
ahora que los veo abrasarse como si se hubieran perdido
ahora
Retirado daqui.

terça-feira, 26 de julho de 2016

Eu também amo Neil Young - Diego Moraes

Talvez eu seja o único cara andando a pé do centro a nova cidade
Recolhendo restos de coisas do século passado e transformando em livros
Chorando, ouvindo aquela canção do Neil Young da boca de um mendigo.

Retirado daqui.

sexta-feira, 15 de julho de 2016

A poem by Sam Buchan-Watts

The Dogs
My most cherished photographs
transformed overnight into those of dogs:
big horny dogs in their ripest years
hogging the frame for themselves.
Every last photographer’s trick employed
so that even in the tacky studio where he couldn’t focus
my dog, like a good dog, looks ever curious and propositional
baring his hunk of incisor at us, its nourished decay.
In the more rough-cut alfresco shots with an arty contrast
between negative and positive textures, my black dog
merges with the dark or slides into a pond in such a way
that dog and pond are seamless.
In this dog world one ear of my dog is serendipitously
folded back forever, fixed there,
and though the tawny insides appear knobby and esoteric
they indicate a constant alertness to any thrown ball
or that he is newly ruffled from rolling in the buzzing grass.
There is a choice photo stashed in my wallet,
its creased folds powdery with friction; his profile
is divine against a backdrop of swirling marble blue.
This day I recall for its stressful hilarity; we could not bundle
his legs onto the stool. Since then the dog has been as mute
as the pictures. Perhaps somewhere
in his cropped-out lower throat, his bark is stuck.
Retirado daqui.

terça-feira, 28 de junho de 2016

Um poema de Jaime Rocha

48.

A mulher mostra-se na luz, entre a folhagem.
A cor dos seus cabelos está intacta. Ela tece
um caminho para o homem, mas as mãos dele
colaram-se ao cimento, os seus olhos pararam
no tempo. Todo o seu corpo se assemelha agora
a uma árvore acorrentada pelas heras onde não
entra a música, nem o tempo que separa os dias.
As ondas sustiveram o movimento em direcção 
à praia, regressando ao outro lado do horizonte.
As nuvens caíram. As aves perderam as asas.
Tudo, até os cães, desapareceu na escuridão.
Apenas umas pétalas esvoaçaram ao acaso,
seguindo o rasto dos morcegos, num último
torpor, numa vergonha.

Jaime Rocha. Necrophilia. Lisboa: Relógio d'Água. 2010.

sexta-feira, 24 de junho de 2016

Manuel de Freitas - poema de Game Over

Estas escadas tinham degraus
onde por acaso nos sentámos
à espera de não ver gaivotas,
com livros abertos
quando as mãos chegavam.
De novo e despercebida e só,
acendia-se para morrer na tarde
a inútil figuração do desejo.
E éramos outra vez nós
os seus irrepetíveis figurantes,
escondidos num poema
que o tempo pisou, deixa lá
– o recomeçado amor descendo.
Manuel de Freitas. Game Over. Lisboa: &etc.