c is for candle
A small yellow tongue flickers.
The candle drips and drips.
This is how you and I live—
Our souls flare, flesh disappears.
Arseny Tarkovsky
The candle drips and drips.
This is how you and I live—
Our souls flare, flesh disappears.
Arseny Tarkovsky
posted by maria
um fio transparente e tenaz
Sempre acreditei que só as palavras
me saíam da boca, e eram elas
que me podiam adiar a morte.
Hoje sei que me sai da boca um fio,
transparente e tenaz como uma insónia,
que te atou à minha vida para sempre.
Amalia Bautista, Estou Ausente
me saíam da boca, e eram elas
que me podiam adiar a morte.
Hoje sei que me sai da boca um fio,
transparente e tenaz como uma insónia,
que te atou à minha vida para sempre.
Amalia Bautista, Estou Ausente
posted by maria
let’s get out of here
The river is a fish
and my tongue
is white paper
you draw
your hand on
and the sounds
keys make
on the waist
of a janitor
in an empty building
on the night of your birth
when the moon was
a live bird pinned
to a girl’s chest
and the color
of a beat-up door
that hides a paint chipped
life where we lick the throats
of passing trains
and wear bright pills
over our faces
like ghost masks
and move the tiny ghosts
that live in us
like dominos.
Corey Zeller
and my tongue
is white paper
you draw
your hand on
and the sounds
keys make
on the waist
of a janitor
in an empty building
on the night of your birth
when the moon was
a live bird pinned
to a girl’s chest
and the color
of a beat-up door
that hides a paint chipped
life where we lick the throats
of passing trains
and wear bright pills
over our faces
like ghost masks
and move the tiny ghosts
that live in us
like dominos.
Corey Zeller
posted by maria
I sat in the sun
I moved my chair into sun
I sat in the sun
the way hunger is moved when called fasting.
Jane Hirshfield
I sat in the sun
the way hunger is moved when called fasting.
Jane Hirshfield
posted by maria
necessary evil
Tenho quebrado copos
é o que tenho feito
raramente me machuco embora uma vez sim
uma vez quebrei um copo com as mãos
era frágil demais foi o que pensei
era feito para quebrar-se foi o que pensei
e não: eu fui feita para quebrar
em geral eles apenas se espatifam
na pia entre a louça branca e os talheres
(esses não quebram nunca) ou no chão
espalhando-se então com um baque luminoso
tenho recolhido cacos
tenho observado brevemente seu formato
pensando que acontecer é irreversível
pensando em como é fácil destroçar
tenho embrulhado os cacos com jornal
para que ninguém se machuque
como minha mãe me ensinou
como se fosse mesmo possível
evitar os cortes
(mas que não seja eu a ferir)
tenho andado a tentar
não me ferir e não ferir os outros
enquanto esgoto o estoque de copos
mas não tenho quebrado minhas próprias mãos
golpeando os azulejos
não tenho passado a noite
deitada no chão de mármore
estudando as trocas de calor
não tenho mastigado o vidro
procurando separar na boca
o sabor do sangue o sabor do sabão
nem tenho feito uma oração
pelo destino variado
do que antes era um
e por minha força morre múltiplo
tenho quebrado copos
para isso parece deram-me mãos
tenho depois encontrado
cacos que não recolhi
e que identifico por um brilho súbito
no chão da cozinha de manhã
tenho andado com cuidado
com os olhos no chão
à procura de algo que brilhe
e tenho quebrado copos
é o que tenho feito
Ana Martins Marques
é o que tenho feito
raramente me machuco embora uma vez sim
uma vez quebrei um copo com as mãos
era frágil demais foi o que pensei
era feito para quebrar-se foi o que pensei
e não: eu fui feita para quebrar
em geral eles apenas se espatifam
na pia entre a louça branca e os talheres
(esses não quebram nunca) ou no chão
espalhando-se então com um baque luminoso
tenho recolhido cacos
tenho observado brevemente seu formato
pensando que acontecer é irreversível
pensando em como é fácil destroçar
tenho embrulhado os cacos com jornal
para que ninguém se machuque
como minha mãe me ensinou
como se fosse mesmo possível
evitar os cortes
(mas que não seja eu a ferir)
tenho andado a tentar
não me ferir e não ferir os outros
enquanto esgoto o estoque de copos
mas não tenho quebrado minhas próprias mãos
golpeando os azulejos
não tenho passado a noite
deitada no chão de mármore
estudando as trocas de calor
não tenho mastigado o vidro
procurando separar na boca
o sabor do sangue o sabor do sabão
nem tenho feito uma oração
pelo destino variado
do que antes era um
e por minha força morre múltiplo
tenho quebrado copos
para isso parece deram-me mãos
tenho depois encontrado
cacos que não recolhi
e que identifico por um brilho súbito
no chão da cozinha de manhã
tenho andado com cuidado
com os olhos no chão
à procura de algo que brilhe
e tenho quebrado copos
é o que tenho feito
Ana Martins Marques
posted by maria
eu sem saber o que fazer comigo
Havia um tempo em que esperar por ti
era consulta a meteorologia:
preparar coração, achar ali,
na coluna do lado, em geografia
de página, ou écran: coisa parecida
o sol bem desenhado, os raios com
a palavra por baixo, indicativa
de que amanhã o tempo ia ser bom.
Mas não era a palavra, era o ruído,
eu sem saber o que fazer comigo,
e o sol, caracol longo a demorar-
-se - assim era ele oblíquo de rimar;
porque eu sabia que o que ali rimava
estava em saber que vinhas. E ficavas.
Ana Luísa Amaral
era consulta a meteorologia:
preparar coração, achar ali,
na coluna do lado, em geografia
de página, ou écran: coisa parecida
o sol bem desenhado, os raios com
a palavra por baixo, indicativa
de que amanhã o tempo ia ser bom.
Mas não era a palavra, era o ruído,
eu sem saber o que fazer comigo,
e o sol, caracol longo a demorar-
-se - assim era ele oblíquo de rimar;
porque eu sabia que o que ali rimava
estava em saber que vinhas. E ficavas.
Ana Luísa Amaral
posted by maria
SACO DE CINZAS
Nunca estamos a sós para que eu te diga
com sinceridade: uma estante de livros não dá mais
do que um saco de cinzas
faz as contas
Teresa M. G. Jardim
com sinceridade: uma estante de livros não dá mais
do que um saco de cinzas
faz as contas
Teresa M. G. Jardim
posted by maria
FOTOGRAFIA
Apoiou os braços na cómoda
e assim dobrado ficou a ver a fotografia.
Não disse palavra. Apenas o olhar,
a saudade de já não estares ali,
de já não falares com ele
nem haver qualquer rotina.
E cá em baixo, na cozinha,
mal pôs a boca na chávena
caiu-lhe uma lágrima e o choro
veio depois compulsivo.
Pela primeira vez na vida.
Cinquenta anos sem chorar
e de repente todo o amor
quente, salgado, aflitivo.
Carlos Bessa, PAI
ed. do lado esquerdo
e assim dobrado ficou a ver a fotografia.
Não disse palavra. Apenas o olhar,
a saudade de já não estares ali,
de já não falares com ele
nem haver qualquer rotina.
E cá em baixo, na cozinha,
mal pôs a boca na chávena
caiu-lhe uma lágrima e o choro
veio depois compulsivo.
Pela primeira vez na vida.
Cinquenta anos sem chorar
e de repente todo o amor
quente, salgado, aflitivo.
Carlos Bessa, PAI
ed. do lado esquerdo
posted by maria
UPON A CORNER OF THIS CITY
Down that way is the flat they lived in.
Down that, the one in which they died.
I would like to ask you, stranger,
How do i come to stand upon a corner of this city
from which there is no way to turn?
Jack Winter, Misplaced Persons
Down that, the one in which they died.
I would like to ask you, stranger,
How do i come to stand upon a corner of this city
from which there is no way to turn?
Jack Winter, Misplaced Persons
posted by maria
almost-adult singles' grocery lists
The Burgeoning Sad Cat Lady
Cat litter, Fancy Feast, Crane Lake Riesling, tampons.
The Dissertation Writer
Café Bustelo, Saltines, 12-pack of PBR, carton of Marlboro Reds.
The Nostalgist
A loaf of bread, a container of milk, a stick of butter, a carton of Marlboro Reds.
The Drunk
Doritos, Beef Jerky (regular), 12-pack of Sam Adams, what is that? Butterfinger? Yeah, give me one of those. No, two.
The Drunk Burgeoning Sad Cat Lady
Artisanal Doritos, beef jerky (teriyaki), Crane Lake Moscato, the last donut left in the rack, light bulbs.
The Dying Alone, Standard
Frozen chicken fingers, canned peaches, Crane Lake Moscato, condoms, two packs of Camel Lights.
The Dying Alone, Fancy
Frozen tamales, Saltines, hummus, Riesling in a blue bottle, Virginia Superslim Lights. No, the purple ones, not the burgundy ones, those are regulars. No, those are menthols. Yes, the purple ones, on the left—those, yes. Thank you.
The Dying Alone,
But at a Much Later Date
Than Those Other Losers
This Party Was Fancy For Adults, But Now It’s Dying and We Have Fifteen Minutes Until the Store Closes
12-pack Sam Adams or whatever, 1.5 liter of that sweet one with the foot on it, a bottle of the red kangaroo one, two packs American Spirit Yellows, 1 pack Virginia Superslim Menthols (No, not the blue ones—those are lights. The green ones. On the right. No… Yes, those. Thank you.), two packs Camel Lights, 1 pack Virginia Superslim Purp… you know what, just give me one more of the Camel Lights. Thanks. And this gum.
Melissa Witcombe
posted by maria
heart
The heart shifts shape of its own accord—
from bird to ax, from pinwheel
to budded branch. It rolls over in the chest,
a brown bear groggy with winter, skips
like a child at the fair, stopping in the shade
of the fireworks booth, the fat lady's tent,
the corn dog stand. Or the heart
is an empty room where the ghosts of the dead
wait, paging through magazines, licking
their skinless thumbs. One gets up, walks
through a door into a maze of hallways.
Behind one door a roomful of orchids,
behind another, the smell of burned toast.
The rooms go on and on: sewing room
with its squeaky treadle, its bright needles,
room full of file cabinets and torn curtains,
room buzzing with a thousand black flies.
Or the heart closes its doors, becomes smoke,
a wispy lie, curls like a worm and forgets
its life, burrows into the fleshy dirt.
Heart makes a wrong turn.
Heart locked in its gate of thorns.
Heart with its hands folded in its lap.
Heart a blue skiff parting the silk of the lake.
It does what it wants, takes what it needs, eats
when it's hungry, sleeps when the soul shuts down.
Bored, it watches movies deep into the night,
stands by the window counting the streetlamps
squinting out one by one.
Heart with its hundred mouths open.
Heart with its hundred eyes closed.
Harmonica heart, heart of tinsel,
heart of cement, broken teeth, redwood fence.
Heart of bricks and boards, books stacked
in devoted rows, their dusty spines
unreadable. Heart
with its hands full.
Hieroglyph heart, etched deep with history's lists,
things to do. Near-sighted heart. Club-footed heart.
Hard-headed heart. Heart of gold, coal.
Bad juju heart, singing the low down blues.
Choir boy heart. Heart in a frumpy robe.
Heart with its feet up reading the scores.
Homeless heart, dozing, its back against the Dumpster.
Cop-on-the-beat heart with its black billy club,
banging on the lid.
Dorianne Laux
from bird to ax, from pinwheel
to budded branch. It rolls over in the chest,
a brown bear groggy with winter, skips
like a child at the fair, stopping in the shade
of the fireworks booth, the fat lady's tent,
the corn dog stand. Or the heart
is an empty room where the ghosts of the dead
wait, paging through magazines, licking
their skinless thumbs. One gets up, walks
through a door into a maze of hallways.
Behind one door a roomful of orchids,
behind another, the smell of burned toast.
The rooms go on and on: sewing room
with its squeaky treadle, its bright needles,
room full of file cabinets and torn curtains,
room buzzing with a thousand black flies.
Or the heart closes its doors, becomes smoke,
a wispy lie, curls like a worm and forgets
its life, burrows into the fleshy dirt.
Heart makes a wrong turn.
Heart locked in its gate of thorns.
Heart with its hands folded in its lap.
Heart a blue skiff parting the silk of the lake.
It does what it wants, takes what it needs, eats
when it's hungry, sleeps when the soul shuts down.
Bored, it watches movies deep into the night,
stands by the window counting the streetlamps
squinting out one by one.
Heart with its hundred mouths open.
Heart with its hundred eyes closed.
Harmonica heart, heart of tinsel,
heart of cement, broken teeth, redwood fence.
Heart of bricks and boards, books stacked
in devoted rows, their dusty spines
unreadable. Heart
with its hands full.
Hieroglyph heart, etched deep with history's lists,
things to do. Near-sighted heart. Club-footed heart.
Hard-headed heart. Heart of gold, coal.
Bad juju heart, singing the low down blues.
Choir boy heart. Heart in a frumpy robe.
Heart with its feet up reading the scores.
Homeless heart, dozing, its back against the Dumpster.
Cop-on-the-beat heart with its black billy club,
banging on the lid.
Dorianne Laux
posted by maria
It was like this: you were happy
It was like this:
you were happy, then you were sad,
then happy again, then not.
It went on.
You were innocent or you were guilty.
Actions were taken, or not.
At times you spoke, at other times you were silent.
Mostly, it seems you were silent – what could you say?
Now it is almost over.
Like a lover, your life bends down and kisses your life.
It does this not in forgiveness –
between you, there is nothing to forgive –
but with the simple nod of a baker at the moment
he sees the bread is finished with transformation.
Eating, too, is a thing now only for others.
It doesn't matter what they will make of you
or your days: they will be wrong,
they will miss the wrong woman, miss the wrong man,
all the stories they tell will be tales of their own invention.
Your story was this: you were happy, then you were sad,
you slept, you awakened.
Sometimes you ate roasted chestnuts, sometimes persimmons.
Jane Hirshfield
you were happy, then you were sad,
then happy again, then not.
It went on.
You were innocent or you were guilty.
Actions were taken, or not.
At times you spoke, at other times you were silent.
Mostly, it seems you were silent – what could you say?
Now it is almost over.
Like a lover, your life bends down and kisses your life.
It does this not in forgiveness –
between you, there is nothing to forgive –
but with the simple nod of a baker at the moment
he sees the bread is finished with transformation.
Eating, too, is a thing now only for others.
It doesn't matter what they will make of you
or your days: they will be wrong,
they will miss the wrong woman, miss the wrong man,
all the stories they tell will be tales of their own invention.
Your story was this: you were happy, then you were sad,
you slept, you awakened.
Sometimes you ate roasted chestnuts, sometimes persimmons.
Jane Hirshfield
posted by maria
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