+ + Mary Oliver + + In Blackwater Woods + +

Look, the trees
are turning
their own bodies
into pillars

of light,
are giving off the rich
fragrance of cinnamon
and fulfillment,

the long tapers
of cattails
are bursting and floating away over
the blue shoulders

of the ponds,
and every pond,
no matter what its
name is, is

nameless now.
Every year
everything
I have ever learned

in my lifetime
leads back to this: the fires
and the black river of loss
whose other side

is salvation,
whose meaning
none of us will ever know.
To live in this world

you must be able
to do three things:
to love what is mortal;
to hold it

against your bones knowing
your own life depends on it;
and, when the time comes to let it go,
to let it go.

------

(Mary Oliver, no livro American Primitive. Apanhado (parcialmente) na SwissMiss)

+ + Isabel Bowser + +

Today, I marveled shamelessly at the length of my own limbs.
I giggled at the absurd distance from my fingertips to my heart.
How did I grow this expansive?
I used to be the size of a loaf of fresh bread, and before that,
So small you couldn't even see me.
How did I get to be so big?
If I live long enough, who knows how enormous I will become.
My toes might split rivers, my hips might span mountains.
My hair might cradle herds of bison and my belly might rise to meet the moon.
But for now, I am only this big.
Lying on my back at dusk with the window open.
I am only a continent to an ant and a dit of nothing-much to this earth.

Isabel Bowser
(apanhado no insta da Sara Viola)

+ + Elizabeth Bishop + + One Art + +

One Art

The art of losing isn’t hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.

—Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident
the art of losing’s not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

Elizabeth Bishop

(via Catarina Bon de Sousa)

△ △ October Tale △ △ Neil Gaiman △ △

October Tale

*

‘That feels good,’ I said, and I stretched my neck to get out the last of the cramp.

It didn’t just feel good, it felt great, actually. I’d been squashed up inside that lamp for so long. You start to think that nobody’s ever going to rub it again.

‘You’re a genie,’ said the young lady with the polishing cloth in her hand.

‘I am. You’re a smart girl, toots. What gave me away?’

‘The appearing in a puff of smoke,’ she said. And you look like a genie. You’ve got the turban and the pointy shoes.’

I folded my arms and blinked. Now I was wearing blue jeans, grey sneakers, and a faded grey sweater: the male uniform of this time and this place. I raised a hand to my forehead, and I bowed deeply.

‘I am the genie of the lamp,’ I told her. ‘Rejoice, O fortunate one. I have it in my power to grant you three wishes. And don’t try the “I wish for more wishes” thing — I won’t play and you’ll lose a wish. Right. Go for it.’

I folded my arms again.

‘No,’ she said. ‘I mean thanks and all that, but it’s fine. I’m good.’

‘Honey,’ I said. ‘Toots. Sweetie. Perhaps you misheard me. I’m a genie. And the three wishes? We’re talking anything you want. You ever dreamed of flying? I can give you wings. You want to be wealthy, richer than Croesus? You want power? Just say it. Three wishes. Whatever you want.’

‘Like I said,’ she said, ‘thanks. I’m fine. Would you like something to drink? You must be parched after spending so much time in that lamp. Wine? Water? Tea?’

‘Uh…’ Actually, now she came to mention it, I was thirsty. ‘Do you have any mint tea?’

She made me some mint tea in a teapot that was almost a twin to the lamp in which I’d spent the greater part of the last thousand years.

‘Thank you for the tea.’

‘No problem.’

‘But I don’t get it. Everyone I’ve ever met, they start asking for things. A fancy house. A harem of gorgeous women — not that you’d want that, of course…’

‘I might,’ she said. ‘You can’t just make assumptions about people. Oh, and don’t call me toots, or sweetie, or any of those things. My name’s Hazel.’

‘Ah!’ I understood. ‘You want a beautiful woman then? My apologies. You have but to wish.’ I folded my arms.

‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m good. No wishes. How’s the tea?’

I told her that the mint tea was the finest I had ever tasted.

She asked me when I had started feeling a need to grant people’s wishes, and whether I felt a desperate need to please. She asked about my mother, and I told her that she could not judge me as she would judge mortals, for I was a djinn, powerful and wise, magical and mysterious.

She asked me if I liked hummus, and when I said that I did, she toasted a pitta bread, and sliced it up, for me to dip into the hummus.

I dipped my bread slices into the hummus, and ate it with delight. The hummus gave me an idea.

‘Just make a wish,’ I said, helpfully, ‘and I could have a meal fit for a sultan brought in to you. Each dish would be finer than the one before, and all served upon golden plates. And you could keep the plates afterwards.’

‘It’s good,’ she said, with a smile. ‘Would you like to go for a walk?’

We walked together through the town. It felt good to stretch my legs after so many years in the lamp. We wound up in a public park, sitting on a bench by a lake. It was warm, but gusty, and the autumn leaves fell in flurries each time the wind blew.

I told Hazel about my youth as a djinn, of how we used to eavesdrop on the angels and how they would throw comets at us if they spied us listening. I told her of the bad days of the djinn-wars, and how King Suleiman had imprisoned us inside hollow objects: bottles, lamps, clay pots, that kind of thing.

She told me of her parents, who were both killed in the same plane crash, and who had left her the house. She told me of her job, illustrating children’s books, a job she had backed into, accidentally, at the point she realised she would never be a really competent medical illustrator, and of how happy she became whenever she was
sent a new book to illustrate. She told me she taught life drawing to adults at the local community college one evening a week.

I saw no obvious flaw in her life, no hole that she could fill by wishing, save one.

’Your life is good,’ I told her. ‘But you have no one to share it with. Wish, and I will bring you the perfect man. Or woman. A film star. A rich… person…’

‘No need. I’m good,’ she said.

We walked back to her house, past houses dressed for Hallowe’en.

‘This is not right,’ I told her. ‘People always want things.’

‘Not me. I’ve got everything I need.’

‘Then what do I do?’

She thought for a moment. Then she pointed at her front yard. ‘Can you rake the leaves?’

‘Is that your wish?’

‘Nope. Just something you could do while I’m getting our dinner ready.’

I raked the leaves into a heap by the hedge, to stop the wind from blowing it apart. After dinner, I washed up the dishes. I spent the night in Hazel’s spare bedroom.

It wasn’t that she didn’t want help. She let me help. I ran errands for her, picked up art supplies and groceries. On days she had been painting for a long time, she let me rub her neck and shoulders.
I have good, firm hands.

Shortly before Thanksgiving I moved out of the spare bedroom, across the hall, into the main bedroom, and Hazel’s bed.

I watched her face this morning as she slept. I stared at the shapes her lips make when she sleeps. The creeping sunlight touched her face, and she opened her eyes and stared at me, and she smiled.

‘You know what I never asked,’ she said, ‘is what about you? What would you wish for if I asked what your three wishes were?’

I thought for a moment. I put my arm around her, and she snuggled her head into my shoulder.

‘It’s okay,’ I told her. ‘I’m good.’

*

October Tale está no livro Trigger Warning, do Neil Gaiman

Out to Lunch _ 00

Impressões do teatro

Para mim, o mais importante na tragédia é o sexto acto:
o ressuscitar no campo de batalha,
o agitar das perucas e dos trajes,
o arrancar da faca do peito,
o tirar da corda do pescoço,
o dispor-se na fileira entre os vivos
de cara voltada para o público.

As vénias individuais e colectivas:
a mão branca sobre a ferida no peito,
o reverenciar da suicida,
o acenar da cabeça cortada.

As vénias aos pares:
a fúria dando o braço à brandura,
a vítima trocando um olhar doce com o carrasco,
o rebelde sem rancor acertando o passo com o tirano.

O pisar da eternidade com a biqueira da botina dourada.
O escorraçar da moral com a aba do chapéu.
A incorrigível prontidão de recomeçar amanhã.

A entrada em fila indiana dos mortos
nos actos terceiro, quarto e nos entreactos.
O milagroso retorno dos desaparecidos sem notícia.

Pensar que esperavam pacientemente nos bastidores,
sem tirarem as vestes,
sem limparem a maquilhagem,
comove-me mais do que as tiradas trágicas.

Porém, o mais sublime é o cair do pano
e o que se avista através da fresta minguante.
Aqui, uma mão apressa-se para chegar às flores,
acolá, uma outra apanha a espada caída.
Por fim, uma terceira mão invisível
cumpre o seu dever:
aperta-me a garganta.

*

da Wisława Szymborska

(amanhã explico o título deste post)

(p.s. este poema está num livro que foi, finalmente, reeditado pela Relógio D'Água)

+ + Francis Ponge + + Première ébauche d'une main

1

La main est l'un des animaux de l'homme : toujours à la portée du bras qui la rattrape sans cesse, sa chauve-souris de jour.

Reposée ci ou là, colombe ou tourtereau, souvent alors rejointe à sa compagne.

Puis, forte, agile, elle revolette alentour. Elle obombre son front, passe devant ses yeux.
Prestigieusement jouant les Euménides.

[…]

6

La main est l'un des animaux de l'homme ; souvent le dernier qui remue.
Blessée parfois, traînant sur le papier comme un membre raidi quelque stylo bagué qui y laisse sa trace.
A bout de forces, elle s'arrête.
Fronçant alors le drap ou froissant le papier, comme un oiseau qui meurt crispé dans la poussière, - et s'y relâche enfin.

*

Deste poema do Ponge.
Ouvi-o, pela primeira vez, neste disco.

E há uma razão para o partilhar, hoje — passei a manhã a fotografar mãos que são como pássaros.

+ + António Reis + +

Devo muito ao Olímpio (muito, mesmo)*. Entre outras coisas, ele costumava, quando estávamos a trabalhar (na Bulhosa do Campo Grande, 98/99), volta e meia sacar de um livro e «epá, tens de ler isto» (e ficava com aquele seu sorriso malandro).
Bum! Inevitavelmente, era sempre Bum!
Respigava sempre o melhor em tudo.
Um dia mostrou-me estes poemas, sabia lá eu quem era o António Reis ou, sequer, que tinha escrito e era cineasta. Transcrevi-os para uma folhinha merdosa de papel, folhinha essa que me tem acompanhado em todas as mudanças de casa (e foram muitas) e que está, neste momento, apoiada na estante, encostada aos meus cadernos. Volto a eles com frequência. E tive de voltar a eles, com muito prazer, em trabalho: vamos reeditar os Poemas Quotidianos lá na chafarica onde passo os dias a alinhar letras em páginas (há trabalhos piores :) )

 + + António Reis + + 

* Não será esta uma conversa para se ter aqui, mas sim à volta de uma mesa de café, com fumo e cerveja e amigos. 

+ + Wisława Szymborska + +

Possibilities

I prefer movies.
I prefer cats.
I prefer the oaks along the Warta.
I prefer Dickens to Dostoyevsky.
I prefer myself liking people
to myself loving mankind.
I prefer keeping a needle and thread on hand, just in case.
I prefer the color green.
I prefer not to maintain
that reason is to blame for everything.
I prefer exceptions.
I prefer to leave early.
I prefer talking to doctors about something else.
I prefer the old fine-lined illustrations.
I prefer the absurdity of writing poems
to the absurdity of not writing poems.
I prefer, where love's concerned, nonspecific anniversaries
that can be celebrated every day.
I prefer moralists
who promise me nothing.
I prefer cunning kindness to the over-trustful kind.
I prefer the earth in civvies.
I prefer conquered to conquering countries.
I prefer having some reservations.
I prefer the hell of chaos to the hell of order.
I prefer Grimms' fairy tales to the newspapers' front pages.
I prefer leaves without flowers to flowers without leaves.
I prefer dogs with uncropped tails.
I prefer light eyes, since mine are dark.
I prefer desk drawers.
I prefer many things that I haven't mentioned here
to many things I've also left unsaid.
I prefer zeroes on the loose
to those lined up behind a cipher.
I prefer the time of insects to the time of stars.
I prefer to knock on wood.
I prefer not to ask how much longer and when.
I prefer keeping in mind even the possibility
that existence has its own reason for being.

Wisława Szymborska

[prefiro a tradução inglesa]

+ + Gregory Corso + +

THE WHOLE MESS… ALMOST

I ran up six flights of stairs
to my small furnished room
opened the window
and began throwing out
those things most important in life

First to go, Truth, squealing like a fink:
“Don’t! I’ll tell awful things about you!”
“Oh yeah? Well, I’ve nothing to hide ... OUT!”
Then went God, glowering & whimpering in amazement:
“It’s not my fault! I’m not the cause of it all!” “OUT!”
Then Love, cooing bribes: “You’ll never know impotency!
All the girls on Vogue covers, all yours!”
I pushed her fat ass out and screamed:
“You always end up a bummer!”
I picked up Faith Hope Charity
all three clinging together:
“Without us you’ll surely die!”
“With you I’m going nuts! Goodbye!”

Then Beauty ... ah, Beauty—
As I led her to the window
I told her: “You I loved best in life
... but you’re a killer; Beauty kills!”
Not really meaning to drop her
I immediately ran downstairs
getting there just in time to catch her
“You saved me!” she cried
I put her down and told her: “Move on.”

Went back up those six flights
went to the money
there was no money to throw out.
The only thing left in the room was Death
hiding beneath the kitchen sink:
“I’m not real!” It cried
“I’m just a rumor spread by life ... ”
Laughing I threw it out, kitchen sink and all
and suddenly realized Humor
was all that was left—
All I could do with Humor was to say:
“Out the window with the window!”

Gregory Corso

+ + Frank O'Hara + +

HAVING A COKE WITH YOU

is even more fun than going to San Sebastian, Irún, Hendaye, Biarritz, Bayonne
or being sick to my stomach on the Travesera de Gracia in Barcelona
partly because in your orange shirt you look like a better happier St. Sebastian
partly because of my love for you, partly because of your love for yoghurt
partly because of the fluorescent orange tulips around the birches
partly because of the secrecy our smiles take on before people and statuary
it is hard to believe when I’m with you that there can be anything as still
as solemn as unpleasantly definitive as statuary when right in front of it
in the warm New York 4 o’clock light we are drifting back and forth
between each other like a tree breathing through its spectacles

and the portrait show seems to have no faces in it at all, just paint
you suddenly wonder why in the world anyone ever did them
                                                                                                                I look
at you and I would rather look at you than all the portraits in the world
except possibly for the Polish Rider occasionally and anyway it’s in the Frick
which thank heavens you haven’t gone to yet so we can go together for the first time
and the fact that you move so beautifully more or less takes care of Futurism
just as at home I never think of the Nude Descending a Staircase or
at a rehearsal a single drawing of Leonardo or Michelangelo that used to wow me
and what good does all the research of the Impressionists do them
when they never got the right person to stand near the tree when the sun sank
or for that matter Marino Marini when he didn’t pick the rider as carefully
as the horse
                        it seems they were all cheated of some marvelous experience
which is not going to go wasted on me which is why I’m telling you about it

Frank O'Hara

(este devo-o à Menina Limão)

+ + Henrique Manuel Bento Fialho

«Não mais escrever amor, não mais escrever ruína, não mais escrever tempo, não mais escrever morte. Escrever apenas mundo, uma constelação de poeira em chamas.»

Henrique Manuel Bento Fialho