sábado, 31 de dezembro de 2016


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

Estamos prontos para singrar
na noite do nosso

Napule. Tea For One, 2011.