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sabato 27 dicembre 2008

More Elizabeth Alexander

Emancipation

Corncob constellation,
oyster shell, drawstring pouch, dry bones.

Gris gris in the rafters.
Hoodoo in the sleeping nook.
Mojo in Linda Brent’s crawlspace.

Nineteenth century corncob cosmogram
set on the dirt floor, beneath the slant roof,
left intact the afternoon
that someone came and told those slaves

“We’re free.”

Race

Sometimes I think about Great-Uncle Paul who left Tuskeegee,
Alabama to become a forester in Oregon and in so doing
became fundamentally white for the rest of his life, except
when he travelled without his white wife to visit his siblings —
now in New York, now in Harlem, USA — just as pale-skinned,
as straight-haired, as blue-eyed as Paul, and black. Paul never told anyone
he was white, he just didn’t say that he was black, and who could imagine,
an Oregon forester in 1930 as anything other than white?
The siblings in Harlem each morning ensured
no one confused them for anything other than what they were, black.
They were black! Brown-skinned spouses reduced confusion.
Many others have told, and not told, this tale.
When Paul came East alone he was as they were, their brother.

The poet invents heroic moments where the pale black ancestor stands up
on behalf of the race. The poet imagines Great-Uncle Paul
in cool, sagey groves counting rings in redwood trunks,
imagines pencil markings in a ledger book, classifications,
imagines a sidelong look from an ivory spouse who is learning
her husband’s caesuras. She can see silent spaces
but not what they signify, graphite markings in a forester’s code.

Many others have told, and not told, this tale.
The one time Great-Uncle Paul brought his wife to New York
he asked his siblings not to bring their spouses,
and that is where the story ends: ivory siblings who would not
see their brother without their tell-tale spouses.
What a strange thing is “race,” and family, stranger still.
Here a poem tells a story, a story about race.


Elizabeth Alexander vai ler poemas na posse de Obama

Ars Poetica #100: I believe (by Elizabeth Alexander)

Poetry, I tell my students,

is idiosyncratic. Poetry

is where we are ourselves,

(though Sterling Brown said

“Every ‘I’ is a dramatic ‘I’”)

digging in the clam flats

for the shell that snaps,

emptying the proverbial pocketbook.

Poetry is what you find

in the dirt in the corner,

overhear on the bus, God

in the details, the only way

to get from here to there.

Poetry (and now my voice is rising)

is not all love, love, love,
and I’m sorry the dog died.

Poetry (here I hear myself loudest)
is the human voice,

and are we not of interest to each other?

venerdì 26 dicembre 2008

Bök sent me to Perec

Observe the street, from time to time, with some concern for system perhaps.
Apply yourself. Take your Time.
Note down the place: the terrace of a cafe near the junction of the Rue de Bac and the Boulevard Saint Germain
the time: seven o' clock in the evening
the date: 15 May 1973
the weather: set fair
Note down what you can see. Anything worthy of note going on. Do you know how to see what's worthy of note? Is there anything that strikes you?
Nothing strikes you. You don't know how to see.

You must set about it more slowly, almost stupidly.

Force yourself to write down what is of no interest,

what is most obvious, most common, most colourless.


* Perec a ecrit "la disparition" en 1969, ou l''e' disparait.


domenica 21 dicembre 2008

Ora direis, lavar colheres

Uma sobra de gordura, matéria pura sem forma nem cor,
grudou na colher que a senhora, que traz quase toda sua vida
espalhada por toda sua coluna doída,
lavava depois de uma refeição quase sem sabor.
Aquela senhora de que não tratam os contos
(mas que somos nós todos os dias pelas ruas,
nunca prontos e
não sabemos em quais contos cabemos),
lavava.a colher.

Onde estava a senhora? Atrás de uma cortina branca
no interior da Frisia. Mas a Frísia é apenas o nome do pedaço de mundo
onde a senhora come––e lava a colher.
Ela despeja no metal um detergente qualquer––amarelo.
O detergente é gosmento, suas mãos são feitas de carne
já tocaram o ríspido e o belo, já apalparam o tenro e o espinhoso;
uma compota de proteínas forma aquele dedo habilidoso e ele vai para a colhe
esvaecer a sobra de gordura––esgoto abaixo.

Ela logo se esquece da gordura, da gosma, da pequena agrura
de arrancar sobra grudada de tanto esfregar,
esquece as perguntas que faz sem formular––amanhã
e amanhã se em outros dias iguais a amanhã
ela respirar. E nossa senhora com a tarefa terminada
senta-se na poltrona acomodada onde esteve nos anos em que aguardou,
viveu e não parou de aguardar.

Hoje. Mas também hoje é apenas o nome
dos pedaços de tempo que correm sobre as costas
enquanto a gordura grudada some sem traços.
Duas mãos compostas de minutos gordos e magros,
presos a seu corpo feito de anos cercado de objetos;
seus dedos a senti-los, colheres, uma almofada.
Ela lavou a colher e continua sua vida,
senta na poltrona moldada por seus ossos, fecha os olhos,
a testa fica apenas virada para o dia.

Talvez consigas encostar tua testa nele.

sabato 20 dicembre 2008

quero morder palavras

meia palavra tres let
ras. entendeu? no ouv
ido foram seis

venerdì 19 dicembre 2008

Viva Dieter (em Salinas)

tem gente
que faz do seu caso
um caso de todo o mundo
e tem gente
que faz do caso de todo o mundo
um caso seu:
mas tem também
graças a deus
outra gente

es gibt leute
die ihre sache
zur sache der allgemeinheit machen
und es gibt leute
die die sache der allgemeinheit
zur ihrer engenen sachen machen
es gibt aber auch
gott sei dank
noch andere arten
von leuten

dr

mercoledì 17 dicembre 2008

Un autre Darwich

La prison

Mon addresse a changé
L'heure de mes repas
Ma ration de tabac, ont changé,
Et la couleur de mes vêtements, et mon visage et ma
silhouette
La lune,

Si chère à mon coeur ici,
Est plus belle et plus grande désormais.
Et l'odeur de la terre: parfums.
Et le goût de la nature: douceurs.
Comme si je me tenais sur le toit de ma vieille maison,
Une étoile nouvelle,
Dans mes yeux, incrustée.

1966

martedì 16 dicembre 2008

Por que mesmo buca l'umbrello?

Caos em Poema (tradução tonta de Chaos in Poetry de D.H. Lawrence)

O poema, eles dizem, é uma questão de palavras. E isto é verdade tal como a pintura é questão de tintas e o afresco questão de cores. Isto fica tão longe de toda a verdade que, dito assim por dizer, no início, no meio e no fim de uma prosa, que pode até soar ingênuo.

O poema é uma questão de palavras. Poema, um encadeamento de palavras em um gargalo, por um atalho, até um ato falho. Poema, uma inter-animação de imagens. Poema, uma sugestão arregalada de alguma idéia. O poema é todas estas coisas e ainda é mais. Dados todos estes ingredientes, você terá algo muito parecido com um poema, alguma coisa para a qual podemos talvez usar o velho nome de poesia. E a poesia, como um bric-a-brac, estará sempre na moda. Mas poema ainda é alguma outra coisa.

A qualidade essencial do poema é que ele faz um novo esforço de atenção e descobre um novo mundo dentro do mundo conhecido. As gentes, e também os bichos e as tulipas, todas vivem em um estranho e sempre rebelde caos. O caos que nós nos acostumamos a chamar de cosmos. O caos interno meio inefável do qual somos compostas chamamos consciência, e chamamos mente e chamamos civilização. Mas no fundo é caos iluminado por algumas visões, ou não-iluminado por algumas visões. Assim como o arco-íris que pode ou não se iluminar na tempestade. Como os arco-íris, as visões perecem.

Mas as gentes não podem viver no caos. Os bichos podem. Para o bicho, tudo é caos, há apenas um elemento aqui e ali que recorre. E assim fica o bicho contente – gente não. Gentes parecem precisar de se embrulhar em visões das coisas e construir para si uma casa cheia de formas aparentes e estabilidade. Neste terror do caos, as pessoas começam colocando um guarda-chuva entre elas e aquilo que elas vêem fosforescer e desaparecer por toda parte. Então elas pintam a parte debaixo do guarda-chuva com um firmamento. Então elas podem marchar, viver e morrer sob o guarda-chuva. Legado aos descendentes, o guarda-chuva se torna uma cúpula e alguns notam as vezes que alguma coisa saiu errada.

Debaixo do guarda-chuva que é guarda-caos, as pessoas gradualmente murcham. Aparece então a poeta, inimiga da convenção, e faz um furo no guarda-chuva; e uau, a súbita imagem do caos torna-se uma visão, uma janela para o sol. Mas depois de algum tempo, acostumadas a visão e não gostando tanto do genuíno pedaço de caos, as gentes de lugar comum arquitetam um simulacro da janela que abre para o caos e pintam o guarda-chuva com a imagem do guarda-chuva. Isto é, tornam-se acostumados a visão, passa a ser parte da decoração de casa. Então o guarda-chuva parece um firmamento brilhante com muitos aspectos. Mas, ah, é tudo simulacro, em inumeráveis matizes. Homero e Keats, anotados e com um glossário.

Esta é a história da nossa era. Alguém vê os titãs pelos selvagens ares de caos e o titã se torna para as gerações seguintes uma parede entre elas e o caos que elas deveriam ter herdado. As escolas, como as antologias, são máquinas de transformar pedaços de mundo e papel de parede. O céu selvagem saiu correndo e assobiando. Até isto já se tornou um grande guarda-chuva entre a humanidade e o céu de ar fresco; então se tornou um afresco pintado sob o qual as pessoas desbotam e ficam insatisfeitas. Até que uma outra poeta faça um furo até o caos aberto e cheio de vento.

Pelo menos nosso teto não nos engana mais – todo o talento de todas as eras humanas não nos fará atravessa-lo. Dante ou Leonardo, Beethoven ou Whitman: tudo pintado no teto. É como o são Francisco pregando para os pássaros em Assisi. Maravilhoso como ar e os pássaros e o caos das muitas coisas – até porque o afresco está desbotando... mas ainda assim, ficamos felizes de sair daquela igreja e entrar no caos natural.

Este é um momento para a humanidade: espiar o caos, voltar a ele. Enquanto servir o guarda-chuva, e os poetas fizerem furos nele, e a massa das pessoas possam ser gradualmente educadas para ter a visão daqueles furos; o que significa copiá-los bem para que pareça que o que foi visto está sendo visto e fazer a humanidade continuar se arremessando entre as paredes de sua parede pintada, estaremos completando a nossa consciência.

Wordsworth, por exemplo, em alegria fez um furo e viu a flor amarela. Até então as pessoas tinham visto apenas a flor desbotada sob a sombra do guarda-chuva. Com Wordsworth tiveram um impacto de caos. Desde então os jardins de primavera tem flores amarelas – pintamos sobre os furos.

E Shakespeare, uma maior alegria, fez o furo e viu as emoções e as turbulências das pessoas em caos por trás da idéia convencional e do guarda-chuva pintado das imagens morais. Mas agora a nossa cúpula está pintada densamente com Hamlets e Macbeths, as paredes laterais também, e a ordem fica fixa e completa. As pessoas não podem ser diferentes desta imagem. O caos ficou preso do lado de fora.

O guarda-chuva ficou tão grande, os remendos pintados tão firmes que os furos ficaram difíceis de serem feitos. Eles ficam parecendo ultrajes e não mais visões do ar fresco – devem ser assimilados ao resto de um só golpe.

Então o guarda-chuva fica absoluto. E então a ânsia por caos se torna nostalgia. E assim vai até que algum vento muito forte retalhe o guarda-chuva e deixe o que restar da humanidade no meio do caos – o caos fica aonde está não importa quantos guarda-chuvas acumulemos.

E as poetas, nesta encruzilhada? Elas revelam o desejo interior da humanidade – o desejo de caos, o medo do caos. O desejo de caos é o que faz os poemas respirarem – o medo do caos é a marcha das formas e das técnicas. O poema é feito de palavras, eles dizem. Eles sopram bolhas de som e imagem que logo explodem em anseio de caos. Mas quem está pronto para fazer apenas mostruários de poemas pode confeccionar bolhas brilhantes, sem ar de caos dentro, e que por isto permanecem até que as deixemos cair.

Fragment de Le soldat qui rêvait de lys blancs

...
Je lui demandai me faisant violence :
S'il en est ainsi, décris-moi un seul cadavre.
Il rectifia sa position, caressa son journal plié
Et me dit comme s'il me chantait un ritournelle :
Tente de vent sur les gravats,
L'homme enlaçait les astres brisés.
Une couronne de sang ceignait son large front
Et sa poitrine était sans médailles,
Puisqu'il s'était mal battu
Il avait l'aspect d'un paysan, d'un ouvrier ou d'un marchand ambulant
Tente de vent sur les gravats... Il mourrut
Les bras jetés comme des ruisseaux à sec.
Et lorsque j'ai cherché son non dans ses poches,
J'ai trouvé deux photos,
L'une ... de sa femme,
L'autre ... de sa fille...
Je lui demandai : En as-tu attristé?
Il m'interrompit : Mahmoud, mon ami,
La tristesse est un oiseau blanc
Étranger aux champs de bataille. Et les soldats
Commettent un péché, s'ils s'afligent.
...

------
Mahmoud Darwich a écrit ça aprés une nuit blanche
avec un isralien qui retournait de la guérre de 1967.
Darwich, descobri hoje,
foi amigo de Schlomo Sand ("Comment le peuple juif fut inventé").
Haifa dos anos 50 talvez tenha sido um modelo de fuga
das identidades nacionais,
modelo de antinacionalismo

domenica 14 dicembre 2008

Considere-se insubordinável

Nem sei se isso já apareceu no blog, mas ele recorre.
Talvez na época em que eu falei tanto de mim, quando era época de carnaval.
Mas recorre:

Afobado

Tenho sonhos de grandeza, mas só com a luz acesa.

Mas não sou só isto.

Quero descobrir a origem da noumenologia fazendo nomadologia.

Mas não sou só isto.

Sou talvez de Oxum, talvez de Ogum, de qualquer um.

Mas não sou só isto.

Ando com muito privilégio e tenho vergonha desde o colégio.

Mas não sou só isto.

Tenho culpas mansinhas e um bem-estar folhas-voando-sozinhas.

Mas não sou só isto.

Tenho diploma de amador, mas não consigo cuidar de muita flor.

Mas não sou só isto.

Meu sol fica na casa nove e, apesar disso, é meu corpo que se move.

Mas não sou só isto.

Me pagam para achar buracos estreitos que moram entre os conceitos.

Mas não sou só isto.

Ando com uma perna torta, prefiro pisar a pedra, não joaninha morta.

Mas não sou só isto.

Gosto de cozinhar sem receita, espero e no tempero tudo se ajeita.

Mas não sou só isto.

Nasci brasileiro, mas discretamente prefiro ser um pouco estrangeiro.

Mas não sou só isto.

Não sei o que dizem minhas identidades, mas elas não falam verdades.

Mas não sou só isto.

Gosto de ficar comendo arroz, e tentar só pensar no porquê depois

Mas não sou só isto.

Penso umas idéias atéias, talvez causem minhas diarréias

Mas não sou só isto.

Quero tudo diferente, não tenho agulhas, nem cadeado, nem pente

Mas não sou só isto

Fujo de todos os perigos, mas corro para os perigos mais antigos.

Mas não sou só isto.

Às vezes me acho sem credenciais, sei que com ou sem elas tanto faz

Mas não sou só isto.

Quero ser o contrário disso; contrário descomprometido e insubmisso.

Mas não sou só isto

Sou até a borboleta azul que viu o rio cair da montanha.

sabato 13 dicembre 2008

The madman, Khalil Gibran

The Madman

His Parables and Poems

By Kahlil Gibran

You ask me how I became a madman. It happened thus: One day, long before many gods were born, I woke from a deep sleep and found all my masks were stolen,—the seven masks I have fashioned an worn in seven lives,—I ran maskless through the crowded streets shouting, “Thieves, thieves, the cursed thieves.”

Men and women laughed at me and some ran to their houses in fear of me.

And when I reached the market place, a youth standing on a house-top cried, “He is a madman.” I looked up to behold him; the sun kissed my own naked face for the first time. For the first time the sun kissed my own naked face and my soul was inflamed with love for the sun, and I wanted my masks no more. And as if in a trance I cried, “Blessed, blessed are the thieves who stole my masks.”

Thus I became a madman.

And I have found both freedom of loneliness and the safety from being understood, for those who understand us enslave something in us.

But let me not be too proud of my safety. Even a Thief in a jail is safe from another thief.

God

In the ancient days, when the first quiver of speech came to my lips, I ascended the holy mountain and spoke unto God, saying, “Master, I am thy slave. Thy hidden will is my law and I shall obey thee for ever more.”

But God made no answer, and like a mighty tempest passed away.

And after a thousand years I ascended the holy mountain and again spoke unto God, saying, “Creator, I am thy creation. Out of clay hast thou fashioned me and to thee I owe mine all.”

And God made no answer, but like a thousand swift wings passed away.

And after a thousand years I climbed the holy mountain and spoke unto God again, saying, “Father, I am thy son. In pity and love thou hast given me birth, and through love and worship I shall inherit thy kingdom.”

And God made no answer, and like the mist that veils the distant hills he passed away.

And after a thousand years I climbed the sacred mountain and gain spoke unto God, saying, “My God, my aim and my fulfillment; I am thy yesterday and thou are my tomorrow. I am thy root in the earth and thou art my flower in the sky, and together we grow before the face of the sun.”

Then God leaned over me, and in my ears whispered words of sweetness, and even as the sea that enfoldeth a brook that runneth down to her, he enfolded me.

And when I descended to the valleys and the plains God was there also.

My Friend

My friend, I am not what I seem. Seeming is but a garment I wear—a care-woven garment that protects me from thy questionings and thee from my negligence.

The “I” in me, my friend, dwells in the house of silence, and therein it shall remain for ever more, unperceived, unapproachable.

I would not have thee believe in what I say nor trust in what I do—for my words are naught but thy own thoughts in sound and my deeds thy own hopes in action.

When thou sayest, “The wind bloweth eastward,” I say, “Aye it doth blow eastward“; for I would not have thee know that my mind doth not dwell upon the wind but upon the sea.

Thou canst not understand my seafaring thoughts, nor would I have thee understand. I would be at sea alone.

When it is day with thee, my friend, it is night with me; yet even then I speak of the noontide that dances upon the hills and of the purple shadow that steals its way across the valley; for thou canst not hear the songs of my darkness nor see my wings beating against the stars—and I fain would not have thee hear or see. I would be with night alone.

When thou ascendest to thy Heaven I descend to my Hell—even then thou callest to me across the unbridgeable gulf, “My companion, my comrade,” and I call back to thee, “My comrade, my companion“—for I would not have thee see my Hell. The flame would burn thy eyesight and the smoke would crowd thy nostrils. And I love my Hell too well to have thee visit it. I would be in Hell alone.

Thou lovest Truth and Beauty and Righteousness; and I for thy sake say it is well and seemly to love these things. But in my heart I laught at thy love. Yet I would not have thee see my laughter. I would laugh alone.

My friend, thou art good and cautious and wise; nay, thou art perfect—and I, too, speak with thee wisely and cautiously. And yet I am mad. But I mask my madness. I would be mad alone.

My friend, thou art not my friend, but how shall I make thee understand? My path is not thy path, yet together we walk, hand in hand.

The Scarecrow

Once I said to a scarecrow, “You must be tired of standing in this lonely field.”

And he said, “The joy of scaring is a deep and lasting one, and I never tire of it.”

Said I, after a minute of thought, “It is true; for I too have known that joy.”

Said he, “Only those who are stuffed with straw can know it.”

Then I left him, not knowing whether he had complimented or belittled me.

A year passed, during which the scarecrow turned philosopher.

And when I passed by him again I saw two crows building a nest under his hat.

The Sleep-Walkers

In the town where I was born lived a woman and her daughter, who walked in their sleep.

One night, while silence enfolded the world, the woman and her daughter, walking, yet asleep, met in their mist-veiled garden.

And the mother spoke, and she said: “At last, at last, my enemy! You by whom my youth was destroyed—who have built up your life upon the ruins of mine! Would I could kill you!”

And the daughter spoke, and she said: “O hateful woman, selfish and old! Who stand between my freer self and me! Who would have my life an echo of your own faded life! Would you were dead!”

At that moment a cock crew, and both women awoke. The mother said gently, “Is that you, darling?” And the daughter answered gently, “Yes, dear.”

The Wise Dog

One day there passed by a company of cats a wise dog.

And as he came near and saw that they were very intent and heeded him not, he stopped.

Then there arose in the midst of the company a large, grave cat and looked upon them and said, “Brethren, pray ye; and when ye have prayed again and yet again, nothing doubting, verily then it shall rain mice.”

And when the dog heard this he laughed in his heart and turned from them saying, “O blind and foolish cats, has it not been written and have I not known and my fathers before me, that that which raineth for prayer and faith and supplication is not mice but bones.”

The Two Hermits

Upon a lonely mountain, there lived two hermits who worshipped God and loved one another.

Now these two hermits had one earthen bowl, and this was their only possession.

One day an evil spirit entered into the heart of the older hermit and he came to the younger and said, “It is long that we have lived together. The time has come for us to part. Let us divide our possessions.”

Then the younger hermit was saddened and he said, “It grieves me, Brother, that thou shouldst leave me. But if thou must needs go, so be it,” and he brought the earthen bowl and gave it to him saying, “We cannot divide it, Brother, let it be thine.”

Then the older hermit said, “Charity I will not accept. I will take nothing but mine own. It must be divided.”

And the younger one said, “If the bowl be broken, of what use would it be to thee or to me? If it be thy pleasure let us rather cast a lot.”

But the older hermit said again, “I will have but justice and mine own, and I will not trust justice and mine own to vain chance. The bowl must be divided.”

Then the younger hermit could reason no further and he said, “If it be indeed thy will, and if even so thou wouldst have it let us now break the bowl.”

But the face of the older hermit grew exceedingly dark, and he cried, “O thou cursed coward, thou wouldst not fight.”

On Giving and Taking

Once there lived a man who had a valley-full of needles. And one day the mother of Jesus came to him and said: “Friend, my son's garment is torn and I must needs mend it before he goeth to the temple. Wouldst thou not give me a needle?”

And he gave her not a needle, but he gave her a learned discourse on Giving and Taking to carry to her son before he should go to the temple.

The Seven Selves

In the stillest hour of the night, as I lay half asleep, my seven selves sat together and thus conversed in whisper:

First Self: Here, in this madman, I have dwelt all these years, with naught to do but renew his pain by day and recreate his sorrow by night. I can bear my fate no longer, and now I rebel.

Second Self: Yours is a better lot than mine, brother, for it is given to me to be this madman's joyous self. I laugh his laughter and sing his happy hours, and with thrice winged feet I dance his brighter thoughts. It is I that would rebel against my weary existence.

Third Self: And what of me, the love-ridden self, the flaming brand of wild passion and fantastic desires? It is I the love-sick self who would rebel against this madman.

Fourth Self: I, amongst you all, am the most miserable, for naught was given me but odious hatred and destructive loathing. It is I, the tempest-like self, the one born in the black caves of Hell, who would protest against serving this madman.

Fifth Self: Nay, it is I, the thinking self, the fanciful self, the self of hunger and thirst, the one doomed to wander without rest in search of unknown things and things not yet created; it is I, not you, who would rebel.

Sixth Self: And I, the working self, the pitiful labourer, who, with patient hands, and longing eyes, fashion the days into images and give the formless elements new and eternal forms—it is I, the solitary one, who would rebel against this restless madman.

Seventh Self: How strange that you all would rebel against this man, because each and every one of you has a preordained fate to fulfill. Ah! could I but be like one of you, a self with a determined lot! But I have none, I am the do-nothing self, the one who sits in the dumb, empty nowhere and nowhen, while you are busy re-creating life. Is it you or I, neighbours, who should rebel?

When the seventh self thus spake the other six selves looked with pity upon him but said nothing more; and as the night grew deeper one after the other went to sleep enfolded with a new and happy submission.

But the seventh self remained watching and gazing at nothingness, which is behind all things.

War

One night a feast was held in the palace, and there came a man and prostrated himself before the prince, and all the feasters looked upon him; and they saw that one of his eyes was out and that the empty socket bled. And the prince inquired of him, “What has befallen you?” And the man replied, “O prince, I am by profession a thief, and this night, because there was no moon, I went to rob the money-changer's shop, and as I climbed in through the window I made a mistake and entered the weaver's shop, and in the dark I ran into the weaver's loom and my eye was plucked out. And now, O prince, I ask for justice upon the weaver.”

Then the prince sent for the weaver and he came, and it was decreed that one of his eyes should be plucked out.

“O prince,” said the weaver, “the decree is just. It is right that one of my eyes be taken. And yet, alas! both are necessary to me in order that I may see the two sides of the cloth that I weave. But I have a neighbour, a cobbler, who has also two eyes, and in his trade both eyes are not necessary.”

Then the prince sent for the cobbler. And he came. And they took out one of the cobbler's two eyes.

And justice was satisfied.

The Fox

A fox looked at his shadow at sunrise and said, “I will have a camel for lunch today.” And all morning he went about looking for camels. But at noon he saw his shadow again—and he said, “A mouse will do.”

The Wise King

Once there ruled in the distant city of Wirani a king who was both mighty and wise. And he was feared for his might and loved for his wisdom.

Now, in the heart of that city was a well, whose water was cool and crystalline, from which all the inhabitants drank, even the king and his courtiers; for there was no other well.

One night when all were asleep, a witch entered the city, and poured seven drops of strange liquid into the well, and said, “From this hour he who drinks this water shall become mad.”

Next morning all the inhabitants, save the king and his lord chamberlain, drank from the well and became mad, even as the witch had foretold.

And during that day the people in the narrow streets and in the market places did naught but whisper to one another, “The king is mad. Our king and his lord chamberlain have lost their reason. Surely we cannot be ruled by a mad king. We must dethrone him.”

That evening the king ordered a golden goblet to be filled from the well. And when it was brought to him he drank deeply, and gave it to his lord chamberlain to drink.

And there was great rejoicing in that distant city of Wirani, because its king and its lord chamberlain had regained their reason.

Ambition

Three men met at a tavern table. One was a weaver, another a carpenter and the third a ploughman.

Said the weaver, “I sold a fine linen shroud today for two pieces of gold. Let us have all the wine we want.”

“And I,” said the carpenter, “I sold my best coffin. We will have a great roast with the wine.”

“I only dug a grave,” said the ploughman, “but my patron paid me double. Let us have honey cakes too.”

And all that evening the tavern was busy, for they called often for wine and meat and cakes. And they were merry.

And the host rubbed his hands and smiled at his wife; for his guests were spending freely.

When they left the moon was high, and they walked along the road singing and shouting together.

The host and his wife stood in the tavern door and looked after them.

“Ah!” said the wife, “these gentlemen! So freehanded and so gay! If only they could bring us such luck every day! Then our son need not be a tavern-keeper and work so hard. We could educate him, and he could become a priest.”

The New Pleasure

Last night I invented a new pleasure, and as I was giving it the first trial an angel and a devil came rushing toward my house. They met at my door and fought with each other over my newly created pleasure; the one crying, “It is a sin!“—the other, “It is a virtue!”

The Other Language

Three days after I was born, as I lay in my silken cradle, gazing with astonished dismay on the new world round about me, my mother spoke to the wet-nurse, saying, “How does my child?”

And the wet-nurse answered, “He does well, Madame, I have fed him three times; and never before have I seen a babe so young yet so gay.”

And I was indignant; and I cried, “It is not true, mother; for my bed is hard, and the milk I have sucked is bitter to my mouth, and the odour of the breast is foul in my nostrils, and I am most miserable.”

But my mother did not understand, nor did the nurse; for the language I spoke was that of the world from which I came.

And on the twenty-first day of my life, as I was being christened, the priest said to my mother, “You should indeed by happy, Madame, that your son was born a Christian.”

And I was surprised,—and I said to the priest, “Then your mother in Heaven should be unhappy, for you were not born a Christian.”

But the priest too did not understand my language.

And after seven moons, one day a soothsayer looked at me, and he said to my mother, “Your son will be a statesman and a great leader of men.”

But I cried out,—“That is a false prophet; for I shall be a musician, and naught but a musician shall I be.”

But even at that age my language was not understood—and great was my astonishment.

And after three and thirty years, during which my mother, and the nurse, and the priest have all died, (the shadow of God be upon their spirits) the soothsayer still lives. And yesterday I met him near the gates of the temple; and while we were talking together he said, “I have always known you would become a great musician. Even in your infancy I prophesied and foretold your future.”

And I believed him—for now I too have forgotten the language of that other world.

The Pomegranate

Once when I was living in the heart of a pomegranate, I heard a seed saying, “Someday I shall become a tree, and the wind will sing in my branches, and the sun will dance on my leaves, and I shall be strong and beautiful through all the seasons.”

Then another seed spoke and said, “When I was as young as you, I too held such views; but now that I can weigh and measure things, I see that my hopes were vain.”

And a third seed spoke also, “I see in us nothing that promises so great a future.”

And a fourth said, “But what a mockery our life would be, without a greater future!”

Said a fifth, “Why dispute what we shall be, when we know not even what we are.”

But a sixth replied, “Whatever we are, that we shall continue to be.”

And a seventh said, “I have such a clear idea how everything will be, but I cannot put it into words.”

Then an eight spoke—and a ninth—and a tenth—and then many—until all were speaking, and I could distinguish nothing for the many voices.

And so I moved that very day into the heart of a quince, where the seeds are few and almost silent.

The Two Cages

In my father's garden there are two cages. In one is a lion, which my father's slaves brought from the desert of Ninavah; in the other is a songless sparrow.

Every day at dawn the sparrow calls to the lion, “Good morrow to thee, brother prisoner.”

The Three Ants

Three ants met on the nose of a man who was asleep in the sun. And after they had saluted one another, each according to the custom of his tribe, they stood there conversing.

The first ant said, “These hills and plains are the most barren I have known. I have searched all day for a grain of some sort, and there is none to be found.”

Said the second ant, “I too have found nothing, though I have visited every nook and glade. This is, I believe, what my people call the soft, moving land where nothing grows.”

Then the third ant raised his head and said, “My friends, we are standing now on the nose of the Supreme Ant, the mighty and infinite Ant, whose body is so great that we cannot see it, whose shadow is so vast that we cannot trace it, whose voice is so loud that we cannot hear it; and He is omnipresent.”

When the third ant spoke thus the other ants looked at each other and laughed.

At that moment the man moved and in his sleep raised his hand and scratched his nose, and the three ants were crushed.

The Grave-Digger

Once, as I was burying one of my dead selves, the grave-digger came by and said to me, “Of all those who come here to bury, you alone I like.”

Said I, “You please me exceedingly, but why do you like me?”

“Because,” said he, “They come weeping and go weeping—you only come laughing and go laughing.”

On the Steps of the Temple

Yestereve, on the marble steps of the Temple, I saw a woman sitting between two men. One side of her face was pale, the other was blushing.

The Blessed City

In my youth I was told that in a certain city every one lived according to the Scriptures.

And I said, “I will seek that city and the blessedness thereof.” And it was far. And I made great provision for my journey. And after forty days I beheld the city and on the forty-first day I entered into it.

And lo! the whole company of the inhabitants had each but a single eye and but one hand. And I was astonished and said to myself, “Shall they of this so holy city have but one eye and one hand?”

then I saw that they too were astonished, for they were marveling greatly at my two hands and my two eyes. And as they were speaking together I inquired of them saying, “Is this indeed the Blessed City, where each man lives according to the Scriptures?” And they said, “Yes, this is that city.”

“And what,” said I, “hath befallen you, and where are your right eyes and your right hands?”

And all the people were moved. And they said, “Come thou and see.”

And they took me to the temple in the midst of the city. and in the temple I saw a heap of hands and eyes. All withered. Then said I, “Alas! what conqueror hath committed this cruelty upon you?”

And there went a murmur amongst them. And one of their elders stood forth and said, “This doing is of ourselves. God hath made us conquerors over the evil that was in us.”

And he led me to a high altar, and all the people followed. And he showed me above the altar an inscription graven, and I read:

“If thy right eye offend thee, pluck it out and cast it from thee; for it is profitable for thee that one of thy members should perish, and not that the whole body should be cast into hell. And if thy right hand offend thee, cut it off and cast it from thee; for it is profitable for thee that one of thy members should perish, and not that thy whole body should be cast into hell.”

Then I understood. And I turned about to all the people and cried, “Hath no man or woman among you two eyes or two hands?”

And they answered me saying, “No, not one. There is none whole save such as are yet too young to read the Scripture and to understand its commandment.”

And when we had come out of the temple, I straightway left that Blessed City; for I was not too young, and I could read the scripture.

The Good God and the Evil God

The Good God and the Evil God met on the mountain top.

The Good God said, “Good day to you, brother.”

The Evil God did not answer.

And the Good God said, “You are in a bad humour today.”

“Yes,” said the Evil God, “for of late I have been often mistaken for you, called by your name, and treated as if I were you, and it ill-pleases me.”

And the Good God said, “But I too have been mistaken for you and called by your name.”

The Evil God walked away curing the stupidity of man.

Defeat

Defeat, my Defeat, my solitude and my aloofness;
You are dearer to me than a thousand triumphs,
And sweeter to my heart than all world-glory.

Defeat, my Defeat, my self-knowledge and my defiance,
Through you I know that I am yet young and swift of foot
And not to be trapped by withering laurels.
And in you I have found aloneness
And the joy of being shunned and scorned.

Defeat, my Defeat, my shining sword and shield,
In your eyes I have read
That to be enthroned is to be enslaved,
and to be understood is to be leveled down,
And to be grasped is but to reach one's fullness
and like a ripe fruit to fall and be consumed.

Defeat, my Defeat, my bold companion,
You shall hear my songs and my cries an my silences,
And none but you shall speak to me of the beating of wings,
And urging of seas,
And of mountains that burn in the night,
And you alone shall climb my steep and rocky soul.

Defeat, my Defeat, my deathless courage,
You and I shall laugh together with the storm,
And together we shall dig graves for all that die in us,
And we shall stand in the sun with a will,
And we shall be dangerous.

Night and the Madman

“I am like thee, O, Night, dark and naked; I walk on the flaming path which is above my day-dreams, and whenever my foot touches earth a giant oak tree comes forth.”

“Nay, thou art not like me, O, Madman, for thou still lookest backward to see how large a foot-print thou leavest on the sand.”

“I am like thee, O, Night, silent and deep; and in the heart of my loneliness lies a Goddess in child-bed; and in him who is being born Heaven touches Hell.”

“Nay, thou art not like me, O, Madman, for thou shudderest yet before pain, and the song of the abyss terrifies thee.”

“I am like thee, O, Night, wild and terrible; for my ears are crowded with cries of conquered nations and sighs for forgotten lands.”

“Nay, thou art not like me, O, Madman, for thou still takest thy little-self for a comrade, and with thy monster-self thou canst not be friend.”

“I am like thee, O, Night, cruel and awful; for my bosom is lit by burning ships at sea, and my lips are wet with blood of slain warriors.”

“Nay, thou art not like me, O, Madman; for the desire for a sister-spirit is yet upon thee, and thou has not become a low unto thyself.”

“I am like thee, O, Night, joyous and glad; for he who dwells in my shadow is now drunk with virgin wine, and she who follows me is sinning mirthfully.”

“Nay, thou art not like me, O, Madman, for thy soul is wrapped in the veil of seven folds and thou holdest not they heart in thine hand.”

“I am like thee, O, Night, patient and passionate; for in my breast a thousand dead lovers are buried in shrouds of withered kisses.”

“Yea, Madman, art thou like me? Art thou like me? And canst thou ride the tempest as a steed, and grasp the lightning as a sword?”

“Like thee, O, Night, like thee, mighty and high, and my throne is built upon heaps of fallen Gods; and before me too pass the days to kiss the hem of my garment but never to gaze at my face.”

“Art thou like me, child of my darkest heart? And dost thou think my untamed thoughts and speak my vast language?”

“Yea, we are twin brothers, O, Night; for thou revealest space and I reveal my soul.”

Faces

I have seen a face with a thousand countenances, and a face that was but a single countenance as if held in a mould.


I have seen a face whose sheen I could look through to the ugliness beneath, and a face whose sheen I had to lift to see how beautiful it was.


I have seen an old face much lined with nothing, and a smooth face in which all things were graven.


I know faces, because I look through the fabric my own eye weaves, and behold the reality beneath.

The Greater Sea

My soul and I went to the great sea to bathe. And when we reached the shore, we went about looking for a hidden and lonely place.

But as we walked, we saw a man sitting on a grey rock taking pinches of salt from a bag and throwing them into the sea.

“This is the pessimist,” said my soul, “Let us leave this place. We cannot bathe here.”

We walked on until we reached an inlet. There we saw, standing on a white rock, a man holding a bejeweled box, from which he took sugar and threw it into the sea.

“And this is the optimist,” said my soul, “And he too must not see our naked bodies.

Further on we walked. And on a beach we saw a man picking up dead fish and tenderly putting them back into the water.

“And we cannot bathe before him,” said my soul. “He is the humane philanthropist.”

And we passed on.

Then we came where we saw a man tracing his shadow on the sand. Great waves came and erased it. But he went on tracing it again and again.

“He is the mystic,” said my soul, “Let us leave him.”

And we walked on, till in a quiet cover we saw a man scooping up the foam and putting it into an alabaster bowl.

“He is the idealist,” said my soul, “Surely he must not see our nudity.”

And on we walked. Suddenly we heard a voice crying, “This is the sea. This is the deep sea. This is the vast and mighty sea.” And when we reached the voice it was a man whose back was turned to the sea, and at his ear he held a shell, listening to its murmur.

And my soul said, “Let us pass on. He is the realist, who turns his back on the whole he cannot grasp, and busies himself with a fragment.”

So we passed on. And in a weedy place among the rocks was a man with his head buried in the sand. And I said to my soul, “We can bath here, for he cannot see us.”

“Nay,” said my soul, “For he is the most deadly of them all. He is the puritan.”

Then a great sadness came over the face of my soul, and into her voice.

“Let us go hence,” she said, “For there is no lonely, hidden place where we can bathe. I would not have this wind lift my golden hair, or bare my white bosom in this air, or let the light disclose my sacred nakedness.”

Then we left that sea to seek the Greater Sea.

Crucified

I cried to men, “I would be crucified!”

And they said, “Why should your blood be upon our heads?”

And I answered, “How else shall you be exalted except by crucifying madmen?”

And they heeded and I was crucified. And the crucifixion appeased me.

And when I was hanged between earth and heaven they lifted up their heads to see me. And they were exalted, for their heads had never before been lifted.

But as they stood looking up at me one called out, “For what art thou seeking to atone?”

And another cried, “In what cause dost thou sacrifice thyself?”

And a third said, “Thinkest thou with this price to buy world glory?”

Then said a fourth, “Behold, how he smiles! Can such pain be forgiven?”

And I answered them all, and said:

“Remember only that I smiled. I do not atone—nor sacrifice—nor wish for glory; and I have nothing to forgive. I thirsted—and I besought you to give me my blood to drink. For what is there can quench a madman's thirst but his own blood? I was dumb—and I asked wounds of you for mouths. I was imprisoned in your days and nights—and I sought a door into larger days and nights.

And now I go—as others already crucified have gone. And think not we are weary of crucifixion. For we must be crucified by larger and yet larger men, between greater earths and greater heavens.”

The Astronomer

In the shadow of the temple my friend and I saw a blind man sitting alone. And my friend said, “Behold the wisest man of our land.”

Then I left my friend and approached the blind man and greeted him. And we conversed.

After a while I said, “Forgive my question; but since when has thou been blind?”

“From my birth,” he answered.

Said I, “And what path of wisdom followest thou?”

Said he, “I am an astronomer.”

Then he placed his hand upon his breast saying, “I watch all these suns and moons and stars.”

The Great Longing

Here I sit between my brother the mountain and my sister the sea.

We three are one in loneliness, and the love that binds us together is deep and strong and strange. Nay, it is deeper than my sister's depth and stronger than my brother's strength, and stranger than the strangeness of my madness.

Aeons upon aeons have passed since the first grey dawn made us visible to one another; and though we have seen the birth and the fullness and the death of many worlds, we are still eager and young.

We are young and eager and yet we are mateless and unvisited, and though we lie in unbroken half embrace, we are uncomforted. And what comfort is there for controlled desire and unspent passion? Whence shall come the flaming god to warm my sister's bed? And what she-torrent shall quench my brother's fire? And who is the woman that shall command my heart?

In the stillness of the night my sister murmurs in her sleep the fire-god's unknown name, and my brother calls afar upon the cool and distant goddess. But upon whom I call in my sleep I know not.


Here I sit between my brother the mountain and my sister the sea. We three are one in loneliness, and the love that binds us together is deep and strong and strange.

Said a Blade of Grass

Said a blade of grass to an autumn leaf, “You make such a noise falling! You scatter all my winter dreams.”

Said the leaf indignant, “Low-born and low-dwelling! Songless, peevish thing! You live not in the upper air and you cannot tell the sound of singing.”

Then the autumn leaf lay down upon the earth and slept. And when spring came she waked again—and she was a blade of grass.

And when it was autumn and her winter sleep was upon her, and above her through all the air the leaves were falling, she muttered to herself, “O these autumn leaves! They make such noise! They scatter all my winter dreams.”

The Eye

Said the Eye one day, “I see beyond these valleys a mountain veiled with blue mist. Is it not beautiful?”

The Ear listened, and after listening intently awhile, said, “But where is any mountain? I do not hear it.”

Then the Hand spoke and said, “I am trying in vain to feel it or touch it, and I can find no mountain.”

And the Nose said, “There is no mountain, I cannot smell it.”

Then the Eye turned the other way, and they all began to talk together about the Eye's strange delusion. And they said, “Something must be the matter with the Eye.”

The Two Learned Men

Once there lived in the ancient city of Afkar two learned men who hated and belittled each other's learning. For one of them denied the existence of the gods and the other was a believer.

One day the two met in the marketplace, and amidst their followers they began to dispute and to argue about the existence or the non-existence of the gods. And after hours of contention they parted.

That evening the unbeliever went to the temple and prostrated himself before the altar and prayed the gods to forgive his wayward past.

And the same hour the other learned man, he who had upheld the gods, burned his sacred books. For he had become an unbeliever.

When My Sorrow Was Born

When my Sorrow was born I nursed it with care, and watched over it with loving tenderness.

And my Sorrow grew like all living things, strong and beautiful and full of wondrous delights.

And we loved one another, my Sorrow and I, and we loved the world about us; for Sorrow had a kindly heart and mine was kindly with Sorrow.

And when we conversed, my Sorrow and I, our days were winged and our nights were girdled with dreams; for Sorrow had an eloquent tongue, and mine was eloquent with Sorrow.

And when we sang together, my Sorrow and I, our neighbors sat at their windows and listened; for our songs were deep as the sea and our melodies were full of strange memories.

And when we walked together, my Sorrow and I, people gazed at us with gentle eyes and whispered in words of exceeding sweetness. And there were those who looked with envy upon us, for Sorrow was a noble thing and I was proud with Sorrow.

But my Sorrow died, like all living things, and alone I am left to muse and ponder.

And now when I speak my words fall heavily upon my ears.

And when I sing my songs my neighbours come not to listen.

And when I walk the streets no one looks at me.

Only in my sleep I hear voices saying in pity, “See, there lies the man whose Sorrow is dead.”

And When my Joy was Born

And when my Joy was born, I held it in my arms and stood on the house-top shouting, “Come ye, my neighbours, come and see, for Joy this day is born unto me. Come and behold this gladsome thing that laugheth in the sun.”

But none of my neighbours came to look upon my Joy, and great was my astonishment.

And every day for seven moons I proclaimed my Joy from the house-top—and yet no one heeded me. And my Joy and I were alone, unsought and unvisited.

Then my Joy grew pale and weary because no other heart but mine held its loveliness and no other lips kissed its lips.

Then my Joy died of isolation.

And now I only remember my dead Joy in remembering my dead Sorrow. But memory is an autumn leaf that murmurs a while in the wind and then is heard no more.

“The Perfect World”

God of lost souls, thou who are lost amongst the gods, hear me:

Gentle Destiny that watchest over us, mad, wandering spirits, hear me:

I dwell in the midst of a perfect race, I the most imperfect.

I, a human chaos, a nebula of confused elements, I move amongst finished worlds—peoples of complete laws and pure order, whose thoughts are assorted, whose dreams are arranged, and whose visions are enrolled and registered.

Their virtues, O God, are measured, their sins are weighed, and even the countless things that pass in the dim twilight of neither sin nor virtue are recorded and catalogued.

Here days and night are divided into seasons of conduct and governed by rules of blameless accuracy.

To eat, to drink, to sleep, to cover one's nudity, and then to be weary in due time.

To work, to play, to sing, to dance, and then to lie still when the clock strikes the hour.

To think thus, to feel thus much, and then to cease thinking and feeling when a certain star rises above yonder horizon.

To rob a neighbour with a smile, to bestow gifts with a graceful wave of the hand, to praise prudently, to blame cautiously, to destroy a sound with a word, to burn a body with a breath, and then to wash the hands when the day's work is done.

To love according to an established order, to entertain one's best self in a preconceived manner, to worship the gods becomingly, to intrigue the devils artfully—and then to forget all as though memory were dead.

To fancy with a motive, to contemplate with consideration, to be happy sweetly, to suffer nobly—and then to empty the cup so that tomorrow may fill it again.

All these things, O God, are conceived with forethought, born with determination, nursed with exactness, governed by rules, directed by reason, and then slain and buried after a prescribed method. And even their silent graves that lie within the human soul are marked and numbered.

It is a perfect world, a world of consummate excellence, a world of supreme wonders, the ripest fruit in God's garden, the master-thought of the universe.

But why should I be here, O God, I a green seed of unfulfilled passion, a mad tempest that seeketh neither east nor west, a bewildered fragment from a burnt planet?

Why am I here, O God of lost souls, thou who art lost amongst the gods?

martedì 9 dicembre 2008

Love Lies Sleeping by Elizabeth Bishop

Earliest morning, switching all the tracks
that cross the sky from cinder star to star,
coupling the ends of streets
to trains of light.

now draw us into daylight in our beds;
and clear away what presses on the brain:
put out the neon shapes
that float and swell and glare

down the gray avenue between the eyes
in pinks and yellows, letters and twitching signs.
Hang-over moons, wane, wane!
From the window I see

an immense city, carefully revealed,
made delicate by over-workmanship,
detail upon detail,
cornice upon facade,

reaching up so languidly up into
a weak white sky, it seems to waver there.
(Where it has slowly grown
in skies of water-glass

from fused beads of iron and copper crystals,
the little chemical "garden" in a jar
trembles and stands again,
pale blue, blue-green, and brick.)

The sparrows hurriedly begin their play.
Then, in the West, "Boom!" and a cloud of smoke.
"Boom!" and the exploding ball
of blossom blooms again.

(And all the employees who work in a plants
where such a sound says "Danger," or once said "Death,"
turn in their sleep and feel
the short hairs bristling

on backs of necks.) The cloud of smoke moves off.
A shirt is taken of a threadlike clothes-line.
Along the street below
the water-wagon comes

throwing its hissing, snowy fan across
peelings and newspapers. The water dries
light-dry, dark-wet, the pattern
of the cool watermelon.

I hear the day-springs of the morning strike
from stony walls and halls and iron beds,
scattered or grouped cascades,
alarms for the expected:

queer cupids of all persons getting up,
whose evening meal they will prepare all day,
you will dine well
on his heart, on his, and his,

so send them about your business affectionately,
dragging in the streets their unique loves.
Scourge them with roses only,
be light as helium,

for always to one, or several, morning comes
whose head has fallen over the edge of his bed,
whose face is turned
so that the image of

the city grows down into his open eyes
inverted and distorted. No. I mean
distorted and revealed,
if he sees it at all.

Note: Samambaia, sobre Bishop, em Samambaia, no dia 13 de dezembro.

domenica 7 dicembre 2008

Il faudra (Véronique Tadjo)

Continuer à parcourir les pistes
Et les chemins sans fin
Apprendre à nouveau
Le chant d'un calao
Ne plus chercher en vain
Quelques bras qui se tendent
Ou regarder sans cesse
L'ombre de nos pas
Tu auras pour t'aider
Le tam-tam parleur
Et la beauté des champs
Gorgés de soleil et de pluie.

Veronique Tadjo, née en 1955

martedì 2 dicembre 2008

Desejar Ser (Manuel de Barros)

Com pedaços de mim eu monto um ser atônito.


Prefiro as linhas tortas, como Deus. Em menino eu
sonhava de ter uma perna mais curta (Só pra poder
andar torto). Eu via o velho farmacêutico de tarde, a
subir a ladeira do beco, torto e deserto... toc ploc toc
ploc. Ele era um destaque.
Se eu tivesse uma perna mais curta, todo mundo ha-
veria de olhar para mim: lá vai o menino torto subindo
a ladeira do beco toc ploc toc ploc
Eu seria um destaque. A própria sagração do Eu.

...

lunedì 1 dicembre 2008

Um Antonio Machado

Demos tiempo al tiempo:
para que ele vaso rebose
hay que elenarlo primero

venerdì 28 novembre 2008

Outros Paulo Kauim

de tanto não
o sertão
vai virar sim


brancos
mata
pataxó

brancos
ter bom
advogado

pata
choques

(no
bolso)

pratas
chovem

Um Paulo Kauim

poesia não é música
poesia não é pintura
poesia não é video-arte
não é porra nenhuma

nem filosofia
nem política
nem psicanálise

não é núven
não é neve
não é nada

nem psia
nem psiquê

Paulo Kauim

giovedì 27 novembre 2008

Meio watt de luz a menos (passado 20/11)


Minha terra é de ombros negros

que cantam jongos nos estômagos,

e ardem esporas nos rins.

É que no meu país,

meu pequeno povo branco e confortável

habita uma terra trêmula

feita de ombros escuros,

sempre escravizados,

onde nós pisamos e plantamos hortaliças.

Nossa terra, parda e fértil,

nos alimenta e nos acalenta

e deixa a mesa posta

e os tapetes esfregados.

Nossa terra tem palmeiras

e tem palmas, cortadas, amassadas,

tornadas em óleo

e preparadas em quitutes

que saboreamos e deixamos as sobras,

pois nossa terra-de-ombros-escuros

também lava nossos pratos.

No meu país a terra dá ritmo

e tonalidade, a terra ela mesma balança

e a dança da terra nós também dançamos

temos o barro exótico em nossa própria terra

e dizemos que é nossa raiz que está nela,

raiz fincada em ombros.

Assim. nosso povo parece gigante,

grande sobre uma terra alta

que é fértil mãe gentil

e nos amamenta e cuida dos nossos filhos

quando vamos trabalhar.

Nosso povo se habituou a pisar

os ombros como se fosse chão,

já não sabe pisar a terra.

Mas a cada vez que pisa na pele que é chão

deixa escapar quase exatamente

meio watt de brilho em cada par de olhos.

martedì 25 novembre 2008

Entrever - de Julia Arcanjo

Escrever é lamber meio-termos.
Uma volúpia doida, indefinida.
Tomar-se de palavras.
Tombar contos de cadas.
Nas pontas da língua.

Desertos atravessam-se em canais de areia.
Chinelos virados ao avesso em beira de praia.
O sol que faz é fresco, incandescente.
Há também fervores inclementes.
Miragem, ópio, oriente.
Oásia.

Chinês, vogais pequenas, bocas curtas, botas altas.
Voz digitaduras.
E porcelana...

Parece eu
Alguma mendida
Desconhecida.
Escoltada.
Escassa, rarefeita.
Neo-ócio e lucidez: a hora da virada.
Quero ver quem anda! Manco.
Macaco-vira-lata.

Todos parecem igualmente
Desproporcionais.

Jastrun's Man

I saw a man
Murdered by angels,
Tortured by questions,
Swollen by a stranged cry,
A live corpse,
A victim of morality.

And I could not help him,
Since he deserved no more than pity, which had been exiled
And I had to give him the last blow
Together with angels,
Trampling, tearing, butchering
His paltry heart
His human - after all - heart.

Mieczyslaw Jastrun (1903-83)

lunedì 24 novembre 2008

Quem tem dignidade, na tortura, mente

ranjo, nem é canja de galinha
lasco, nimbus carrancuda em céu de brigadeiro
quero quando não é pra querer
nasci fora do calendário

venerdì 14 novembre 2008

XXI Maldito, Gozozo e Devoto de Hilda Hilst

Não te machuque a minha ausência, meu Deus
Quando eu não mais estiver na Terra
Onde agora canto amor e heresia
Outros hão ferir e amar
Teu coração e corpo. Tuas bifrontes
Valias, mandarim e ovelha, soberba e timidez.

Não temas.
Meus pares e outros homens
Te farão viver dessas duas voragens:
Matança e amanhecer, sangue e poesia.

Chora por mim. Pela poeira que fui
Serei, e sou agora. Pelo esquecimento
Que virá de ti e dos amigos.
Pelas palavras que te deram vida
E agora me dão morte. Punhal, cegueira.

Sorri, meu Deus, por mim. De cedro
De mil abelhas tu és. Cavalo d'água
Rondando o ego. Sorri. Te amei sonâmbula
Exdruxula, mas te amei inteira.

venerdì 31 ottobre 2008

Aquela pinga antiqüissima e idêntica

el horizonte/ borde espurio e flaco

frontera del futuro/ nada en cierne

es un enigma manso/ tan hipócrita

que no asume su rango en el espacio

el horizonte es filo inofensivo

y sin embargo hiere desde lejos

Mario Benedetti, “Más acá del horizonte”

palavras são disfarces de coisas

que fazem coisas disfarces de palavras.

vai minha boca, toca as curvas do planeta redondo, faz-lhe cócegas

os horizontes são as esquinas do mundo

onde as coisas, disfarçadas, vão ao bar

onde se encontram todas as noites para ficarem bêbadas.

venerdì 24 ottobre 2008

Arqueologia do Plástico - alguns textos

A exposição está no subsolo do Espaço Piloto, no Aquário das Cénicas,
UnB. Abriu hoje. Teve gelatina de
plastilídeos e muitas fotos que, quem sabe, ainda vão
parar no Buca L'Umbrello:

ARQUEOLOGIA
DO PLÀSTICO
giselcarricondewaleskareuterhilanbensusan
 
A civilização da Idade do Plástico, chamada de período polimeritico,
se extinguiu há muitos anos. Sobraram apenas escombros, restos
deste material de textura peculiar, quase no limite entre o que a mão
toca e o que a mão está prestes a tocar. Esta exposição traz um
pequeno fragmento, encontrado em escavações arqueológicas, do que
sobrou dessa Era assombrosa e ainda muito desconhecida – sabe-se
quase
apenas que as populações da Era do Plástico procuravam
plastificar
quase tudo que tocavam.
E tudo virou plástico...

A plastificação do mundoque começou pelas superfícies –
parece ter sido uma coqueluche se bem que tenha ocorrido
de forma gradual ao longo da Idade do Plástico. A
omnipresença do plástico pode ser comprovada nos textos
da época: escrevia-se muitas vezes que a imaginação era
plástica
, que a memória era plástica e mesmos os sentidos
eram plásticos. Tudo o que tinha aquela boa qualidade da
flexibilidade sem pudores era chamada de plástico. Mesmo as artes
visuais eram chamadas de plásticas.
Os profetas do plástico 
O belga Leo Beakeland, santificou a baquelita, primeiro plástico 
inteiramente
sobrenaturaltotalmente sintético.A baquelita era o
primeiro polímero que não precisava da natureza, apenas do élan vital
invisível
e multiforme que não deixava marcas em parte alguma fora do
lixo
. Beakeland – plastificado seja o seu nome – abriu caminho para
o nylon, para que as fibras sintéticas estivessem sempre coladas
ao corpo. A baquelita tornou possível um outro mundo, um mundo
dentro
do mundo, em que tudo é menos perecível, menos biológico.

De Smet – que grandes sacos plásticos guardem sua glória
desenvolveu uma geração de bactérias para produzir plástico. Elas
se tornaram plastificadoras biológicas permanentes e graças a elas
que
alguns textos chamam de Bicho-Pitanguy – as pessoas não mais
envelheciam, eram plastificadas. O plástico, se sabia desde a aurora
do polimerítico, no séc. XX, era a fonte da eterna juventude.
Religião no Polimerítico

Na Era do Plástico as pessoas não tocavam em quase nada sem
tocar
também no plástico. Esse material deu forma à sensibilidade
humana
na época. Acredita-se que havia superstições e crendices
associadas aos polímeros. Há quem defenda que a religião da época
girava em torno de totens desse material – é possível que
o plástico tenha sido um símbolo da modernidade dessas populações,
que consideravam o que não era plástico
primitivo
e antiquado.
Alguns textos parecem sugerir que havia algo como uma entidade
cultuada, e que recebia sacrifícios - um titã que tinha ouvidos nas
Arábias
, poros pelas estepes russas, furúnculos pelos mares e até
um ânus no Caribe. Era um titã exigente, pelo qual se faziam guerras
e se faziam pazes. As populações do polimerítico o denominavam
Petróleo
. Os templos do titã, onde as máquinas bebiam de sua água
benta, a Gasolina, se espalhavam por quase todo o planeta. O plástico,
o excremento do titã, ocupava cada vez mais os sentidos.
Promessas de imortalidade
O plástico possibilitava uma versão imortal de qualquer coisa – algo
que não vira , que não é comido pelos vermes. O Titã prometia a
imortalidade, não para as nossas almas, mas para utensílios, vasilhames,
engenhocas e enxertos. O plástico parecia uma nova natureza; tomava
conta dos mares, dos continentes, da fauna e da flora: o plástico tinha
uma vida útil curta e uma morte longa. Em média era utilizado por 12
minutos e sobreviviam por centenas de anos. Havia seis vezes mais
plástico
do que plânctons.
Perspectivas apocalípticas

Sabe-se também de apocalípticos como Norman Mailer que pregava:
nossa ruína será a plastificação das máquinas, dos utensílios, e dos
gestos. Muitas investigações historiográficas concentram-se em
comparar
suas predições com o que sabemos atualmente sobre o
desfecho da Era do Plástico. Encontramos em Mailer a denúncia de
sua época
: plastificar é raptar as coisas do alcance dos nossos sentidos
o plástico é uma bolha que não pode ser sentida ao redor de tudo.
Ou seja, a arma perfeita do diabo: amortece, anestesia, dopa, e faz dormir
os sentidos. O plástico é o inimigo do cheiro forte, do gosto marcado,
da impressão de que as coisas estão acontecendo – ele é o inverso
do arrebatamento. A Idade do Plástico é a idade dos sentidos sonâmbulos,
dos dedos zumbis, dos narizes descapacitados, das peles que se
tornaram artefatos funcionais que sentem o mundo como se estivessem
em uma linha de produção. Até onde as pessoas seriam capazes de ir
para recuperar a intensidade dos sentidos?

Alguns objetos
Cubo
Este objeto é a caixa preta da Idade do Plástico. Parece que desde os primórdios da Idade, Willys de Castro já antecipava esse modelito. Mas, o que era? Pura arte? Uma ratoeira para os pequenos animais plastificados? Peça de museu que servia de ratoeira depois que os visitantes saiam? Ratoeira que virou peça de museu?

Porta-trecos
A civilização hiperplástica abstraiu também seus artistas clássicos. Essa peça foi apelidada pelos arqueólogos de “duchamplástico”. Ela foi encontrada em uma enorme sala cheia de bidês e penicos – cobrindo tubulações de PVC – que, acredita-se, era um museu de arte.


Santuário
A religião da Era do Plástico parecia cultuar qualquer objeto, animal ou espírito feito de plástico. Este santuário, encontrado dentro de um enorme saco plástico preto boiando no Pacífico, parece ter sido objeto de adoração nômade, em que muitos pequenos animais eram levados de continente em continente.

Lanche
Esta peça foi encontrada próximo a uma cadeia de lanchonetes que funcionava como os antigos sistemas de drive-tru. Acredita-se que este bolo plástico ia com suas próprias rodas em direção ao freguês que se alimentava sem sair de onde estava. Seguramente, o tamanho da porção se deve a que a matéria plástica alimenta muito pouco.

Órgãos
Nos corpos encontrados de pessoas da Era do Plástico tardia (séculos XXI-XXIII) – também chamada de civilização hiperplástica - encontraram-se órgãos plásticos em excelente estado de preservação – entre eles cérebros e corações. O que eram os órgãos das populações polimeríticas? Alguns deles pareciam ser pouco mais do que itens de guarda-roupa.

Mão
Acredita-se que essa era a mão que uma artista plástica usava para esculpir em resina ou silicone reproduções da sua própria mão. Artistas polimeríticas usavam diferentes mãos, diferentes peles, diferentes pontas dos dedos – trocavam de demão como se troca de avental.

Tótem
As cadeiras dos bares, dos refeitórios, dos jardins de infância eram puro plástico. Elas não duravam muito. Esta peça, escavada ao lado do que se acredita ser uma creche polimerítica bem pode ser um totem ou um simples entulho. A arqueologia do polimerítico raramente consegue saber o que, no meio dos montes de plásticos, é mais do que lixo.

Busto com pássaro
Na Idade do Plástico as pessoas e os animais se misturaram. O plástico não conhece limites entre espécies, gêneros, reinos ou filos. Ele transborda, faz bolhas, fica abstrato. Quando as células, os tecidos, as veias e as articulações são de silicone, resina ou borracha sintética, quem se importa com as vicissitudes da taxonomia animal?