segunda-feira, 27 de fevereiro de 2017

A poem by Rebecca Watts

Now it’s autumn
and another year in which I could leave you
is a slowly sinking ship.

The air has developed edges
and I am preparing to let myself lie
in a curtained apartment,

safe in the knowledge that strangers
have ceased to gather and laugh
in the lane below

and the brazen meadow no longer
presumes to press its face to the window
like an inquisitor.

Soon even the river will evince a thicker skin,
my breath each morning will flower white,
and all of summer’s schemes will fly like cuckoos.

The leaves are turning and the trees
are shaking them off. Bonfire smoke
between us like a promise lingers.

Retirado daqui. Do livro The Met Office Advises Caution. Carcanet Press, 2016.

quinta-feira, 9 de fevereiro de 2017

Save as Draft - Joel M. Toledo

Or write as poem. The whole point is often
what we miss out on. To revise is to reconsider
the experience of, say, a leaf - never mind
that is not green anymore. Or, pardon the sudden
evening. The transition was nice enough;
the explosive colors of dusk. And, didn't you feel
so much sadness? I cannot explain it any better
than how I could when the outlines were still there:
tress and some wonderful new shapes. 
Since then, things have changed. A pale hand
moves in the darkness. And someone is calling out,
come to bed, come to bed. And it is just you.
The evening insists on evening. It is that simple. 
It is late enough as it is.

Retirado daqui: