6.11.23

2.6.23

Bergman & Thulin

29.4.23

Edwin Muir


 The Horses

Barely a twelvemonth after / The seven days´ war that put the world to sleep, / Late in the evening the strange horses came. / By then we had made our covenant with silence, / But in the first few days it was so still / We listened to our breathing and were afraid. / On the second day / The radios failed; we turned the knobs; no answer. / On the third day a warship passed us, heading north, / Dead bodies piled on the deck. / On the sixth day / A plane plunged over us into the sea. Thereafter / Nothing. The radios dumb; / And still they stand in corners of our kitchens, / And stand, perhaps, turned on, in a millon rooms / All over the world. But now if they should speak, / If on a sudden they should speak again, / If on the stroke of noon a voice should speak, / We would not listen, we would not let it bring / That old bad world that swallowed its children quick / At one great gulp. We would not have it again. / Sometimes we think of the nations lying asleep, / Curled blindly in impenetrable sorrow, / And then the thought confounds us with its strangeness. /The tractors lie about our fields; at evening / They look like dank sea-monsters couched and waiting. / We leave them were they are and let them rust: / “They ´ll moulder away and be like other loam”. / We make our oxen drag our rusty ploughs, / Long laid aside. We have gone back / Far past our fathers’land. / And then, that evening / Late in the summer the strange horses came. / We heard a distant tapping on the road,/ A deepening drumming; it stopped, went on again /  And at the corner changed to hollow thunder. / We saw the heads / Like a wild wave charging and were afraid. / We had sold our horses in our fathers’ time / To buy new tractors. Now they were strange to us / As fabulous steeds set on an ancient shield / Or illustrations in a book of knights. / We did not dare go near them. Yet they waited, / Stubborn and shy, as if they have been sent / By and old command to find our whereabouts / And that long-lost archaic companionship. / In the first moment we had never a thought / That they were creatures to be owned and used. / Among them were some half-a-dozen colts / Dropped in some wilderness of the broken world, / Yet new as if they had come from their own Eden. / Since then they have pulled our ploughs and borne our loads, / But that free servitude still can pierce our hearts. / Our life is changed; their coming our beginning.


20.4.23

14.2.23

Maysa

3.2.23

Alejandra Pizarnik

 

Anoche bebí demasiado porqué comí con unos idiotas, unos arquitectos -- con sus mujercitas -- que hablaban de aviones y del servicio militar en todos los países del mundo. Eran muchachos de veinticuatro a treinta años. Odio a la gente joven -- seria y estudiosa -- con su porvenir abierto y sus miserables deseos de automóviles y departamentos. Los únicos jóvenes que acepto son los bizcos, los cojos, los poetas, los homosexuales, los viudos inconsolables, los frustrados, los obsesionados, sean condes o mendigos, comunistas o monárquicos, mujeres, hombres, andróginos o castrados.

Diarios

26.1.23

Poema de Herberto Helder

 


já não tenho tempo para ganhar o amor, a glória ou a Abissínia,

talvez me reste um tiro na cabeça,

e é tão cinematográfico e tão sem número o número dos efeitos especiais,

mas não quero complicar coisas tão simples da terra,

bom seria entrar no sono como num saco maior que o meu tamanho,

e que uns dedos inexplicáveis lhe dessem um nó rude,

e eu de dentro o não pudesse desfazer :

um saco sem qualquer explicação,

que ficasse para ali num sítio ele mesmo sítio bem amarrado

-- não um destino à Rimbaud,

apenas longe, sem barras de ouro, sem amputação de pernas,

esquecido de mim mesmo num saco atado cegamente,

num recanto pela idade fora,

e lá dentro os dias eram à noite bem no fundo,

um saco sem qualquer salvação nos armazéns obscuros

.

Herberto Helder, in Servidões, 2013

16.1.23

Edna St. Vincent Millay

 

Inland


People that build their houses inland, People that buy a plot of ground Shaped like a house, and build a house there, Far from the sea-board, far from the sound Of water sucking the hollow ledges, Tons of water striking the shore– What do they long for, as I long for One salt smell of the sea once more? People the waves have not awakened, Spanking the boats at the harbor’s head, What do they long for, as I long for,– Starting up in my inland bed, Beating the narrow walls, and finding Neither a window nor a door, Screaming to God for death by drowning– One salt taste of the sea once more?


24.11.22

Emmett Williams



the last french-fried potato 

the ultimate poem, version two   (as improvised by robert filliou and emmett williams during the exhibition l’aujourd’hui de demain in the musée palais saint-vaast at arras, march 20, 1964. performers eat a french-fried potato before each improvised phrase. the poem lasts as long as the potatoes hold out.) no more hotdogs  plus de vrais amants no more wives  plus d’ensilage de maïs  no more bellybuttons plus d’éléphants no more tomorrows plus de beurre salé no more stupidity plus de lampes d’aladin no more feelings of guilt plus de ruches blanches no more children plus de sirènes no more ontological critics plus de rares classiques de ce siècle no more good intentions plus d’immaterialisation no more jealousy plus de piles wonders   no more knocking at the door plus de listes provisoires no more gin and tonic plus de lèvres  no more money
plus de participation cosmique  no more personal appearances plus de dindons no more hot baths plus de promenades no more holes in my shoes plus de camarades no more bodhidharma plus de collaboration no more bad dreams plus d’érotique d’abjection no more sugarbeets plus de nescafé no more thelonious monk plus de permis de pêche no more prayers plus de vieux linge no more answers plus de mimosas en fleur no more inspiration plus de greffes d’écorce no more limited editions plus de sémantique générale no more turtleneck sweaters plus de sang versé no more cats plus de filles d’acier no more dishwashing plus de tendresse no more foghorns plus de phénomènes paranormaux no more todays plus de plantes verte


The Last French-Fried Potato, Emmett Williams.

Originally published in 1967 as a Great Bear Pamphlet by Something Else Press.



26.10.22

Maria Gabriela Llansol


Nunca gostei de lamber, a frio, a superfície de um corpo.

Sinto-o murcho ao gosto, acre ao odor. Mas, se pousas um pé no meu seio e levantas os braços deixando cair o cabelo, penso que é um pé de escrita dividido em dedos que procura a minha emoção. Que me provoca. No fim, mordo-lhe. É esta a minha retribuição de escritora viva.



Maria Gabriela LlansolOnde Vais, Drama-Poesia? (fragmento)