in times of cuarentena I'm feeling electrosexy
what a wonderful (strange) world
A casa varrida pela dança,
o tempo a passar pelas brasas
e a solidão de Armstrong
a tocar a nossa alegria.
Marta Chaves
mood in times of cuarentena
o tempo a passar pelas brasas
e a solidão de Armstrong
a tocar a nossa alegria.
Marta Chaves
mood in times of cuarentena
posted by maria
I miss Lisboa
the feeling of the landing
my neighbourhood
the inside of the buildings
my tabacco shop
my grocery shop
my other grocery shop
the sketchy bars
and the warehouses
peeking inside fado restaurants
and through
night club windows
I miss the oranges on a dark on a night and dark sky
and even the blue smoggy nights
I miss my Canon too but pretty soon I'll have my beautiful Fuji
and everything will be ok
posted by maria
feeling a little older / nearly thirty
Billie Holiday was on the radio
I was standing in the kitchen
smoking my cigarette of this
pack I plan to finish tonight
last night of smoking youth.
I made a cup of this funny
kind of tea I've had hanging
around. A little too sweet
an odd mix. My only impulse
was to make it sweeter.
Ivy Anderson was singing
pretty late tonight
in my very bright kitchen.
I'm standing by the tub
feeling a little older
nearly thirty in my very
bright kitchen tonight.
I'm not a bad looking woman
I suppose O it's very quiet
in my kitchen tonight I'm squeezing
this plastic honey bear a noodle
of honey dripping into the odd sweet
tea. It's pretty late
Honey bear's cover was loose
and somehow honey dripping down
the bear's face catching
in the crevices beneath
the bear's eyes O very sad and sweet
I'm standing in my kitchen O honey
I'm staring at the honey bear's face.
Eileen Myles
I was standing in the kitchen
smoking my cigarette of this
pack I plan to finish tonight
last night of smoking youth.
I made a cup of this funny
kind of tea I've had hanging
around. A little too sweet
an odd mix. My only impulse
was to make it sweeter.
Ivy Anderson was singing
pretty late tonight
in my very bright kitchen.
I'm standing by the tub
feeling a little older
nearly thirty in my very
bright kitchen tonight.
I'm not a bad looking woman
I suppose O it's very quiet
in my kitchen tonight I'm squeezing
this plastic honey bear a noodle
of honey dripping into the odd sweet
tea. It's pretty late
Honey bear's cover was loose
and somehow honey dripping down
the bear's face catching
in the crevices beneath
the bear's eyes O very sad and sweet
I'm standing in my kitchen O honey
I'm staring at the honey bear's face.
Eileen Myles
posted by maria
se eu fosse um vídeo
in times of cuarentena I'm feeling electrosexy
and forever a good time gurl
posted by maria
pequena tosse, pequeno amor
Como já foi dito:
O amor e a tosse
não podem ser disfarçados.
Nem mesmo uma pequena tosse.
Nem mesmo um pequeno amor.
Anne Sexton
em tempos de cuarentena, tens um pouco de cada
O amor e a tosse
não podem ser disfarçados.
Nem mesmo uma pequena tosse.
Nem mesmo um pequeno amor.
Anne Sexton
em tempos de cuarentena, tens um pouco de cada
posted by maria
good friday
Three o’clock. The bus lurches
round into the sun. ‘D’s this go –‘
he flops beside me – ‘right along Bath Street?
– Oh tha’s, tha’s all right, see I’ve
got to get some Easter eggs for the kiddies.
I’ve had a wee drink, ye understand –
ye’ll maybe think it’s a – funny day
to be celebrating – well, no, but ye see
I wasny working, and I like to celebrate
when I’m no working – I don’t say it’s right
I’m no saying it’s right, ye understand – ye understand?
But anyway tha’s the way I look at it –
I’m no boring you, eh? – ye see today,
take today, I don’t know what today’s in aid of,
whether Christ was – crucified or was he –
rose fae the dead like, see what I mean?
You’re an educatit man, you can tell me –
– Aye, well. There ye are. It’s been seen
time and again, the working man
has nae education, he jist canny – jist
hasny got it, know what I mean,
he’s jist bliddy ignorant – Christ aye,
bliddy ignorant. Well –’ The bus brakes violently,
he lunges for the stair, swings down – off,
into the sun for his Easter eggs,
on very
nearly
steady
legs.
Edwin Morgan
round into the sun. ‘D’s this go –‘
he flops beside me – ‘right along Bath Street?
– Oh tha’s, tha’s all right, see I’ve
got to get some Easter eggs for the kiddies.
I’ve had a wee drink, ye understand –
ye’ll maybe think it’s a – funny day
to be celebrating – well, no, but ye see
I wasny working, and I like to celebrate
when I’m no working – I don’t say it’s right
I’m no saying it’s right, ye understand – ye understand?
But anyway tha’s the way I look at it –
I’m no boring you, eh? – ye see today,
take today, I don’t know what today’s in aid of,
whether Christ was – crucified or was he –
rose fae the dead like, see what I mean?
You’re an educatit man, you can tell me –
– Aye, well. There ye are. It’s been seen
time and again, the working man
has nae education, he jist canny – jist
hasny got it, know what I mean,
he’s jist bliddy ignorant – Christ aye,
bliddy ignorant. Well –’ The bus brakes violently,
he lunges for the stair, swings down – off,
into the sun for his Easter eggs,
on very
nearly
steady
legs.
Edwin Morgan
posted by maria
agora por balcões
Desculpe, nao me leve a mal, mas
vi-o há pouco ao balcão da casa
das tapas a tomar café, lembrei-me
do Hopper e tive este impulso
de lhe falar. Mas no Hopper, disse eu,
não se mostram emoções. Aí é que
bate o ponto, observou a pessoa, não
sei bem porquê, mas a verdade
é que sinto que era bom por emoções
nisto tudo, descobrir emoções consigo.
Helder Moura Pereira
vi-o há pouco ao balcão da casa
das tapas a tomar café, lembrei-me
do Hopper e tive este impulso
de lhe falar. Mas no Hopper, disse eu,
não se mostram emoções. Aí é que
bate o ponto, observou a pessoa, não
sei bem porquê, mas a verdade
é que sinto que era bom por emoções
nisto tudo, descobrir emoções consigo.
Helder Moura Pereira
posted by maria
on the same note
(e se eu fosse um vídeo)
in times of cuarentena I'm feeling electrosexy
in times of cuarentena I'm feeling electrosexy
posted by maria
NO HAY PALABRAS
Tocas un cuerpo, sientes su repetido temblor
bajo tus dedos, el cálido transcurrir de la sangre.
Recorres la estremecida tibieza,
sus corporales sombras, su desvelado resplandor.
No hay palabras. Tocas un cuerpo; un mundo
llena ahora tus manos, empuja su destino.
A través de tu pecho el tiempo pasa,
golpea como un látigo junto a tus labios.
Las horas, un instante se detienen
y arrancas tu pequeña porción de eternidad.
Fueron antes los nombres y las fechas,
la historia clara, lúcida, de dos rostros distantes.
Después, lo que llamas amor, quizá se torne forzada promesa,
levantado muro pretendiendo encerrar,
aquello que únicamente en libertad puede ganarse.
No importa, ahora no importa.
Tocas un cuerpo, en él te hundes,
palpas la vida, real, común. No estás ya solo.
Juan Luis Panero
bajo tus dedos, el cálido transcurrir de la sangre.
Recorres la estremecida tibieza,
sus corporales sombras, su desvelado resplandor.
No hay palabras. Tocas un cuerpo; un mundo
llena ahora tus manos, empuja su destino.
A través de tu pecho el tiempo pasa,
golpea como un látigo junto a tus labios.
Las horas, un instante se detienen
y arrancas tu pequeña porción de eternidad.
Fueron antes los nombres y las fechas,
la historia clara, lúcida, de dos rostros distantes.
Después, lo que llamas amor, quizá se torne forzada promesa,
levantado muro pretendiendo encerrar,
aquello que únicamente en libertad puede ganarse.
No importa, ahora no importa.
Tocas un cuerpo, en él te hundes,
palpas la vida, real, común. No estás ya solo.
Juan Luis Panero
posted by maria
it is yourself
THE Heart is the capital of the Mind,
The Mind is a single State;
The Heart and the Mind together make
A single continent.
One - is the population -
Numerous enough;
This ecstatic nation
Seek - it is Yourself.
Emily Dickinson, Poems for Youth
The Mind is a single State;
The Heart and the Mind together make
A single continent.
One - is the population -
Numerous enough;
This ecstatic nation
Seek - it is Yourself.
Emily Dickinson, Poems for Youth
posted by maria
2
é possível
gostar de te pegar nas mãos
e estremecer
mesmo depois de as ter tocado
sermos tão mutuamente
incompletos
Rui Costa, Mike Tyson para Principiantes
gostar de te pegar nas mãos
e estremecer
mesmo depois de as ter tocado
sermos tão mutuamente
incompletos
Rui Costa, Mike Tyson para Principiantes
posted by maria
other fugitives and other strangers
The nightclub’s neon light glows red with anxiety
as I wait on the turning lane. Cars blur past,
their headlights white as charcoal.
I trust each driver not to swerve. I trust each stranger
not to kill me and let me cross
the shadow of his smoky path.
Trust is all I have for patrons at the bar:
one man offers me a line, one man buys the kamikaze,
another drinks it. Yet another wraps his arm
around my waist. I trust him not to harm my body
as much as he expects his body to remain unharmed.
One man asks me to the dance floor, one asks me
to a second drink, another asks me home.
I dance, I drink, I follow.
I can trust a man without clothes.
Naked he conceals no weapons, no threat
but the blood in his erection. His bed unfamiliar,
only temporarily. Pillows without loyalty
absorb the weight of any man, betray
the scent of the men who came before.
I trust a stranger’s tongue to tell me
nothing valuable. It makes no promises
of truth or lies, it doesn’t swear commitments.
The stranger’s hands take their time exploring.
Undisguised, they do not turn to claws or pretend
artistic skill to draw configurations on my flesh. They
are only human hands with fingertips
unsentimental with discoveries, without nostalgia
for what they leave behind. I trust this stranger
not to stay inside me once he enters me.
I trust him to release me from the blame
of pleasure. The pain I exit with no greater
than the loneliness that takes me to the bar.
He says good night, I give him back
those words, taking nothing with me that is his.
The front door shuts behind me, the gravel
driveway ushers me away. The rearview mirror
loses sight of threshold, house, sidewalk, street.
Driving by the nightclub I pass a car
impatient on the turning lane. My hands are cold
and itch to swerve the wheel, to brand
his fender with the fury of my headlights.
But I let this stranger live
to struggle through the heat and sweat
of false affections, anonymous and
borrowed like the glass that washed my prints
to hold another patron’s drink.
Rigoberto Gonzalez
as I wait on the turning lane. Cars blur past,
their headlights white as charcoal.
I trust each driver not to swerve. I trust each stranger
not to kill me and let me cross
the shadow of his smoky path.
Trust is all I have for patrons at the bar:
one man offers me a line, one man buys the kamikaze,
another drinks it. Yet another wraps his arm
around my waist. I trust him not to harm my body
as much as he expects his body to remain unharmed.
One man asks me to the dance floor, one asks me
to a second drink, another asks me home.
I dance, I drink, I follow.
I can trust a man without clothes.
Naked he conceals no weapons, no threat
but the blood in his erection. His bed unfamiliar,
only temporarily. Pillows without loyalty
absorb the weight of any man, betray
the scent of the men who came before.
I trust a stranger’s tongue to tell me
nothing valuable. It makes no promises
of truth or lies, it doesn’t swear commitments.
The stranger’s hands take their time exploring.
Undisguised, they do not turn to claws or pretend
artistic skill to draw configurations on my flesh. They
are only human hands with fingertips
unsentimental with discoveries, without nostalgia
for what they leave behind. I trust this stranger
not to stay inside me once he enters me.
I trust him to release me from the blame
of pleasure. The pain I exit with no greater
than the loneliness that takes me to the bar.
He says good night, I give him back
those words, taking nothing with me that is his.
The front door shuts behind me, the gravel
driveway ushers me away. The rearview mirror
loses sight of threshold, house, sidewalk, street.
Driving by the nightclub I pass a car
impatient on the turning lane. My hands are cold
and itch to swerve the wheel, to brand
his fender with the fury of my headlights.
But I let this stranger live
to struggle through the heat and sweat
of false affections, anonymous and
borrowed like the glass that washed my prints
to hold another patron’s drink.
Rigoberto Gonzalez
posted by maria
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