Tuesday, November 24, 2009

Acção de Graças

Quinta-feira darei graças por estar viva
porque senão chegando já a morte
me encontraria ida
quinta-feira darei graças
pelos desencantos e desencontros
os risos
e a chamada surpreendida
chegando me trouxeste a vida
de novo gorda faceira de cheias
trémulas nádegas
redondas e quase descobertas
ao sol que irradia
todas as manhãs
pela janela onde ela se me debruça
e acarinha
Há muito a não via
deste lado do mar
onde não alcança meu olhar
Mas agora monto alazão
cavalo bravio e corro
desgarrada pelo sal adentro
Chegando-te me cheiram alecrins
ruas estreitinhas
pregões estridentes
e coisa de raiz
de Santa Joana a Princesa.
Pois que se me despenque de novo
do velho céu a mal amada
chuva miudinha
pois que por agora
ainda a morte me encontra viva.

E Senhora sou que morrer possa
apenas quando chegar o dia.

Monday, November 23, 2009

at five o'clock in the morning

at five o'clock in the morning
as if time mattered
you woke her up
and left her
weeping
go back to sleep my child
at five o'clock in the morning
the sun was shining
and I was passing
for time had let me go
at five o'clock in the morning
I'll kiss your forehead
from the heights of S. João
I'll be here when you arrive my child.
and I'll depart
for time is about to let me go.

23rd November III

I pray
be my guide
my light
and my strenght
cross the walls from space
from flimsy bodies
and useless rain
and be my light
for a hundred and seven years
is a long time
and my wrinkles you did not strike
I pray
from the depths of me
be the woman I need you to be

23rd November II

I beg you to come to me tonight for she will not be here
to hold me tight
I know you'll come to me tonight for you are here
and never died

November 23rd

a hundred and six years ago
a mild lament a warm breast
and I was born
to raise all but my own
to rise from poverty and shacks
to laugh strong and hold a head
that never bent
a hundred and six years ago
my dear
you were the heart of my chest
the long nails across my back
and the bloody tears they all would shed
a hundred and six years ago
an immaculate morning
and the days to be...

the words

no rapturing lips no moaning in your ears
no Xmas gifts no New Year Eve
not even hello across the street
nothing
but the words
and the words
will suffice.

no sorrows

no sorrows no regrets repentances
or disappointments
in the present
just a beach a shell an ever ending wave
that will take me away

in there I will find
today and tomorrow
hand, head, an arm and a leg
and the next day
another arm
another leg
and in the end
you'll just hug me.

target

I never aimed at perfection
at princes
or at pristine men
I aimed at the wrong target
and hit the bullseye
Now I see you walking through the door
tall and handsome
any one of these Fridays

I'll make sure to keep the arrows down.

Saturday, November 21, 2009

dos Brasis

Cuida-te dos Brasis
terra onde tudo dá
Tupis araras e tamanduás
cuida-te do pau
que tinta sangue e madeira
rubra fez nossa gente surda
aos apelos de quem por lá penava
entre formigas monstros e
uma ou outra índia
que seus filhos à morte sonegava.
Cuida-te de terras estranhas
iluminadas de mil vozes
de papagaios cantores
e padres em clamores.
Cuida-te de mim
que sou de lá e daqui
e por tanto me fiz
alada quase nada fio
e fumaça desvanecida
na aurora amarga.
E porque não sendo de lá
nem daqui
morro amiúde na agrura
de ir e de voltar.
Cuida-te de mim
pois que não tenho lugar
e se mal te percaltares
perderás raízes e flores
galinhas
mangericão
e Gente
filhos de D. João
que se acabaram em vão
pelos Brasis.
Fia-te de mim
que gritarei de peito aberto
te salvando das ruínas da cidade
invicta, Lisboa antiga
roubada aos Mouros
e de ouros fugida dos meus braços.
Fia-te de mim
Cuida-te de mim
pois que de escravos sobrevi
mas guardando amarras
vivo à deriva sentida
meia morta ensadecida...

Thursday, November 19, 2009

its never

its never the pain that tears us
its knowing there's no sowing it
pois com linha alguma poderei eu
remendar a amargura

Monday, November 16, 2009

drum box

do you remember she used to fall
asleep
listening to your heart beat?
the beat beat of her heart
fills the room
muffled by the pillows
and the willows
by the window
where I sit to hear it
louder than the wind
outside
In her room
nothing sounds
but her heart beat
while her blood
wets her bed
at night
remember?
blood keeps flowing
like a flood
thus the heart
loud
like a drum box
making sure
she doesn't die
in the wet bed
in the middle of the night
afraid
like a child
a so very small child
I sit outside
and listen
just so I can whisper
"remember?"

Tuesday, November 10, 2009

mercy

Maybe you could slide by
and slit my throat
with one single cut.

Instead of leaving me here
dripping bloodless endlessly.

dead

I wanted to die again
in your brown hairless arms
I'd be dead in the beauty
of a dreamful passion
and a thousand and one
days yet to come
I would have died
warm and cozy and
crying for all the love
I would be missing.
I wanted to die again
but not like this.

stones

I carry stones in my mouth
sidewalks of stones
in black and white
where my feet should tread

I carry your stones in my mouth
from the outside in
with no path where to land my aching feet

then

feet turned roots in your hands
and my mouth opened wide
stones rolling from your name
onto mine
small stones
setting ground
between here and there...

Thursday, November 5, 2009

By Philip Krummrich, with thanks from me

A Sonnet for Paula

The kidney stone is not the string quartet;
the broken tooth is just a broken tooth:
the stinking pain, and not some jagged truth
or beauty.  All the fractures must be set
in plaster, not in odes. There is no art
that must be bought with suffering, no pain
that must be welcomed for aesthetic gain;
no song requires the hacking of the heart.

“O poeta só é grande se sofrer”
is twaddle: she is great because she’s great,
although she also suffers. It’s not fair:
what is? Her body bears the sodden weight
of pain; she makes her music nonetheless:
in spite of, not because of her distress.