música de tigre

tudo é ninho vertigem audição

tudo o que penetra e beija é veludo

na caçada cuidadosa

os músculos esticados

fazem e desfazem

uma ponte de cordas sobre o abismo

24.04.09

alba

ela não abre a porta
ela não lê jornal
Alba: as plantas estão secas
ai, esta casa
e os gatos magrinhos que só voltam à noite
são como um punhado de sal no coração aberto

olga

queria ter nascido áurea
mas chamava-se pedra fria
olga é toda material
sob seus olhos
essa espécie de resina
que engraçado
é uma lágrima

O que querem os djinns?

Ela queria saber quem era o franco que avançava sobre Saraqusta Al-Bayda. Mas não houve tempo. O general já ordenara: faz o sinal-da-cruz, sarraceno. Então os moradores da cidade sangraram e a tropa que subiu a colina para salvar seu herói também sangrou. Ela chorou baixo, de modo que derramou lágrimas para sempre. Todos sabem, não se dá leite a quem foi acalentado num elmo.

réstia

trinta graus de luz sob a porta
eis uma nova galáxia de poeira
- mas por que não bateu com força essa porta?
é que as asas de pássaro não são
senão as coisas que elas entreabrem

o salto

Suspeito que, um minuto antes de saltar, ela tenha chegado ao máximo da sua própria transparência: o perfume. Suspeito que seu coração flutuasse no corpo oco e carregasse pequenas encomendas que não seriam entregues. Enquanto seus braços ainda agarravam a amurada da ponte, ela foi um super-herói. Quando as mãos se soltaram, ela esteve em sua pele trêmula pelos últimos vinte segundos. A partir daí, tornou-se constantemente o salto e eu, seu vigia.

burocracia

na fronteira
com os bolsos ingenuamente cheios
sob a luz azul de preencher formulários
eles marcam as seguintes opções
poetas
sim, em trânsito
sim, apenas substâncias controladas

Poema Para Pessoas Que São Compreensivelmente Atarefadas Demais Para Lerem Poesia (Stephen Dunn)*

*Poem For People That Are Understandably Too Busy To Read Poetry




Stephen Dunn



Relax. This won't last long. Or if it does, or if the lines
make you sleepy or bored,
give in to sleep, turn on
the T.V., deal the cards.
This poem is built to withstand
such things. Its feelings
cannot be hurt. They exist somewhere in the poet,
and I am far away.
Pick it up anytime. Start itin the middle if you wish.
It is as approachable as melodrama,
and can offer you violence
if it is violence you like. Look,
there's a man on a sidewalk;
the way his leg is quivering
he'll never be the same again.This is your poem
and I know you're busy at the office
or the kids are into your last nerve.
Maybe it's sex you've always wanted.
Well, they lie together
like the party's unbuttoned coats,
slumped on the bed
waiting for drunken arms to move them.
I don't think you want me to go on;
everyone has his expectations, but this
is a poem for the entire family.
Right now, Budweiser
is dripping from a waterfall,
deodorants are hissing into armpits
of people you resemble,
and the two lovers are dressing now,
saying farewell.
I don't know what music this poem
can come up with, but clearly
it's needed. For it's apparent they will never see each other again
and we need music for this
because there was never music when he or she
left you standing on the corner.
You see, I want this poem to be nicer
than life. I want you to look at it
when anxiety zigzags your stomach
and the last tranquilizer is gone
and you need someone to tell you
I'll be here when you want me
like the sound inside a shell.
The poem is saying that to you now.
But don't give anything for this poem.
It doesn't expect much. It will never say more
than listening can explain.
Just keep it in your attache case
or in your house. And if you're not asleepby
now, or bored beyond sense,
the poem wants you to laugh. Laugh at
yourself, laugh at this poem, at all poetry.
Come on:

Good. Now here's what poetry can do.
Imagine yourself a caterpillar.
There's an awful shrug and, suddenly,
You're beautiful for as long as you live.

(Tem uma tradução bacana feita por Renato Mazzini em http://poesiacomchopsticks.blogspot.com)

To Miss Anne Elliot, from Captain Frederick Wentworth (Persuasion, Jane austen)

I can listen no longer in silence. I must speak to you by such means as are within my reach. You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope. Tell me not that I am too late, that such precious feelings are gone for ever. I offer myself to you again with a heart even more your own than when you almost broke it, eight years and a half ago. Dare not say that man forgets sooner than woman, that his love has an earlier death. I have loved none but you. Unjust I may have been, weak and resentful I have been, but never inconstant. You alone have brought me to Bath. For you alone, I think and plan. Have you not seen this? Can you fail to have understood my wishes? I had not waited even these ten days, could I have read your feelings, as I think you must have penetrated mine. I can hardly write. I am every instant hearing something which overpowers me. You sink your voice, but I can distinguish the tones of that voice when they would be lost on others. Too good, too excellent creature! You do us justice, indeed. You do believe that there is true attachment and constancy among men. Believe it to be most fervent, most undeviating, in F. W.

I must go, uncertain of my fate; but I shall return hither, or follow your party, as soon as possible. A word, a look, will be enough to decide whether I enter your father's house this evening or never.