28.12.17
27.12.17
26.12.17
1 poema de C.K. Williams
Butchers
1
Thank goodness we were able to wipe the Neanderthals out, beastly things,
from our mountains, our tundra—that way we had all the meat we might need.
Thus the butcher can display under our very eyes his hands on the block,
and never refer to the rooms hidden behind where dissections are effected,
where flesh is reduced to its shivering atoms and remade for our delectation
as cubes, cylinders, barely material puddles of admixtured horror and blood.
Rembrandt knew of all this—isn’t his flayed beef carcass really a caveman?
It’s Christ also, of course, but much more a troglodyte such as we no longer are.
Vanished those species—begone!—those tribes, those peoples, those nations—
Myrmidon, Ottoman, Olmec, Huron, and Kush: gone, gone, and goodbye.
2
But back to the chamber of torture, to Rembrandt, who was telling us surely
that hoisted with such cables and hung from such hooks we too would reveal
within us intricate layerings of color and pain: alive the brush is with pain,
aglow with the cruelties of crimson, the cooled, oblivious ivory of our innards.
Fling out the hooves of your hands! Open your breast, pluck out like an Aztec
your heart howling its Cro-Magnon cries that compel to battles of riddance!
Our own planet at last, where purged of wilderness, homesickness, prowling,
we’re no longer compelled to devour our enemies’ brains, thanks to our butcher,
who inhabits this palace, this senate, this sentried, barbed-wire enclosure
where dare enter none but subservient breeze; bent, broken blossom; dry rain.
23.12.17
21.12.17
17.12.17
16.12.17
14.12.17
13.12.17
A poesia de Elisabeth Veiga
Nome
Exércita, esse é o nome
da minha população
de corações.
Alvoroço, esse é o esqueleto
que me ergue o corpo
tiritante.
Adiante: vê
o mesmo que viu atrás
e o cansaço presente
para carregar. Não posso
jogar-me fora.
Sou um rastro que me obriga
a caminhar
e a perambular pelo teto
das tautologias
e dizer ao féretro:
ainda não,
com a garra quebrada
que maneja
a caneta-mariposa
como espada.
(A estalagem do som, 2007)
Perda
Da primeira vez que me quebraram
toda
dobrei os joelhos,
caí sem joelhos,
me dobrei toda sobre
o vazio dos braços.
Os ossos tiritavam,
a cabeça estalava
um sino:
toda um estaleiro
sem navios,
só pavios de viagem,
toda uma estalagem
bêbada de sombras
e sinas,
não sabia mais
quantas primaveras
fazem um cisne,
não sabia
beber a não ser
com as mãos em cuia,
eu era um pires
com a cara redonda
que os gatos lamberam
e fugiram,
um piano com febre
em desarticulação nervosa,
uma pátina derretida,
uma patavina
atarantada
com os caracóis da poeira
sumida no horizonte.
(Sonata para pandemônio, 2002)
7.12.17
1 poema de Fatimah Asghar
Pluto Shits on the Universe
On February 7, 1979, Pluto crossed over Neptune’s orbit and became the eighth planet from the sun for twenty years. A study in 1988 determined that Pluto’s path of orbit could never be accurately predicted. Labeled as “chaotic”, Pluto was later discredited from planet status in 2006.
Today, I broke your solar system. Oops.
My bad. Your graph said I was supposed
to make a nice little loop around the sun.
Naw.
I chaos like a motherfucker. Ain’t no one can
chart me. All the other planets, they think
I’m annoying. They think I’m an escaped
moon, running free.
Fuck your moon. Fuck your solar system.
Fuck your time. Your year? Your year ain’t
shit but a day to me. I could spend your
whole year turning the winds in my bed. Thinking
about rings and how Jupiter should just pussy
on up and marry me by now. Your day?
That’s an asswipe. A sniffle. Your whole day
is barely the start of my sunset.
My name means hell, bitch. I am hell, bitch. All the cold
you have yet to feel. Chaos like a motherfucker.
And you tried to order me. Called me ninth.
Somewhere in the mess of graphs and math and compass
you tried to make me follow rules. Rules? Fuck your
rules. Neptune, that bitch slow. And I deserve all the sun
I can get, and all the blue-gold sky I want around me.
It is February 7th, 1979 and my skin is more
copper than any sky will ever be. More metal.
Neptune is bitch-sobbing in my rearview,
and I got my running shoes on and all this sky that’s all mine.
Fuck your order. Fuck your time. I realigned the cosmos.
I chaosed all the hell you have yet to feel. Now all your kids
in the classrooms, they confused. All their clocks:
wrong. They don’t even know what the fuck to do.
They gotta memorize new songs and shit. And the other
planets, I fucked their orbits. I shook the sky. Chaos like
a motherfucker.
It is February 7th, 1979. The sky is blue-gold:
the freedom of possibility.
Today, I broke your solar system. Oops. My bad.
1.12.17
29.11.17
2 poemas de Hieu Minh Nguyen
Changeling
Standing in front of a mirror, my mother tells me she is ugly
says the medication is making her fat. I laugh & walk her
back to the bed. My mother tells me she is ugly in the same voice
she used to say no woman could love you & I watch her
pull at her body & it is mine. My heavy breast.
My disappointing shape. She asks for a bowl of plain broth
& it becomes the cup of vinegar she would pour down my throat.
Everyday after school, I would kneel before her.
I would remove my clothes & ask her to mark the progress.
It’s important that I mention, I truly wanted to be beautiful
for her. In my dreams I am thin & if not thin, something better.
I tell my mother she is still beautiful & she laughs. The room fills
with flies. They gather in the shape of a small boy. They lead her
back to the mirror, but my reflection is still there.
Cockfight
I met my brother once
in a small village in Vietnam
who, upon meeting me
grabbed my small arm
& dragged me into the woods
behind his house
where a group of men
all wearing our father's face
stood in a circle, cheering
while the two roosters
whose beaks had barbed hooks
taped to them, pecked
& clawed each other open
until the mess of bloodied feathers
were replaced by two clean birds
one, my brother's. The other
a man's, who, I am told is deaf
but vicious. He told me
our father calls him long distance
from America, every week.
I can't help but wonder how
they tell the roosters apart
since the blood has turned their feathers
the same shade of burgundy.
I told him how our father, who lives
only three mile away from me
avoids making eye-contact at supermarkets.
I can tell this made him happy.
Though, he didn't cheer
when the crowd cheered, when one rooster
fell to the dirt with a gash in its neck
I knew he was the winner
the way he lowered his head to hide
his smile, how he looked at me
then snatched his earnings
from the vicious man's hands.
I learned what it was like to be a brother
by watching the roosters
& how, at first, the air was calm
until they were introduced
& then they knew:
there could only be one.
in a small village in Vietnam
who, upon meeting me
grabbed my small arm
& dragged me into the woods
behind his house
where a group of men
all wearing our father's face
stood in a circle, cheering
while the two roosters
whose beaks had barbed hooks
taped to them, pecked
& clawed each other open
until the mess of bloodied feathers
were replaced by two clean birds
one, my brother's. The other
a man's, who, I am told is deaf
but vicious. He told me
our father calls him long distance
from America, every week.
I can't help but wonder how
they tell the roosters apart
since the blood has turned their feathers
the same shade of burgundy.
I told him how our father, who lives
only three mile away from me
avoids making eye-contact at supermarkets.
I can tell this made him happy.
Though, he didn't cheer
when the crowd cheered, when one rooster
fell to the dirt with a gash in its neck
I knew he was the winner
the way he lowered his head to hide
his smile, how he looked at me
then snatched his earnings
from the vicious man's hands.
I learned what it was like to be a brother
by watching the roosters
& how, at first, the air was calm
until they were introduced
& then they knew:
there could only be one.
16.11.17
15.11.17
14.11.17
The Journey to Kafiristan (2001)
In 1939, the author Annemarie Schwarzenbach and the ethnologist Ella Maillart travel together by car to Kabul, but each is in pursuit of her own project. Their mutual journey through the outside world, which runs from Geneva via the Balkans and Turkey to Persia, is compounded by the inner world of emotions with a tender love story. True story.
11.11.17
10.11.17
5.11.17
Lygia Lygia
Belo documentário sobre Lygia Fagundes Telles, dirigido por seu filho Goffredo Telles Neto
e co-dirigido por Paloma Rocha, premiado no Festival de Cinema de Gramado.
Sergei Rachmaninoff: Cello Sonata in G minor, Op. 19: Andante (3. movement)
Cello: Jiří Bárta Piano: Marián Lapšanský
4.11.17
3.11.17
Scherezade Siobhan
MIRA, AFTER FATHER'S RADIATION THERAPY.
In a hospital, God is a scar tissue. A dog breathes as if a slur slipping off
my drunk uncle’s tongue. I place the poem between a prayer and a profanity.
Here is the plucked rooster of my mouth, redder than an exit wound.
Here are the crows blacker than my grandmother’s misspelled tattoos.
I swallow the root of turmeric. Stuff my cheeks with cupful of cardamoms.
Here’s to homemade antidotes, a halt in the hell of motion sickness. Purge
the vomit with goatmilk & camphor oil. Chew the marigold off the garland
coiled around his photograph like a sedated viper. Mourning fills the gaps
in my memory in an inexact dose of steroids. Any absence creates
the illusion of closeness. A callus grows on my big toe and I séance
the cratered fiction of skin with the pinprick of a hairclip. When
the cancer came, his cells dominoed as if a cheap loss in a game of tetris.
His lung x-rayed in a charcoal map of the Andaman. Summer tiptoed
a month later than usual. The henna green swirl of my skirt had stilled itself
by then. My mother’s anklets divorced their bells, were unhooked, shoved deep
into the throat of a mango wood cupboard. Every evening we sat on the porch-swing in his hand-built pagoda. The obi of darkness rearranging the geometry of our grief. The fingertips of java plum trees elongated with the extempore of parrots. My mother’s eyes as bloodshot as their beaks. These birds never leave home, she said. They’d turn feral and empty out any tree.They’d rust a cage with the clockwork of mimicry. But they stayed. No diaspora clings to their wingspan. No pilgrimage across the arbor vitae of hemispheres. So, we sat back and let the green venery wrap the dusk in an epilogue of plumes. Our hands cupping the storm whispering inside each teacup. Our bodies turning silver with rain.
29.10.17
27.10.17
26.10.17
24.10.17
15.10.17
10.10.17
6.10.17
30.9.17
Frida Kahlo La Bruja - versão do Conjunto Jardín
Ay que bonito es volar A las 11 de la noche A las 11 de la noche Ay que bonito es volar Ay mama Subirse y dejarse caer en los tirantes de 1 coche en los tirantes de 1 coche y hasta quisiera llorar ay mama
Me agarra la bruja Me lleva a su casa Me vuelve maceta Y una calabaza Me agarra la bruja Me lleva al cuartel Me vuelve maceta Y me da de comer Y diga me diga Me diga me usted Cuantas creaturitas Se ha chupado usted Señora ninguna Ninguna no sé Ando en pretenciones De chuparle a usted A una bruja me encontré Por el aire iba volando Por el aire iba volando A una bruja me encontré Ay mama
Entonces le pregunté A quien andaba buscando Me dice quién es usted Soy cantador de huapango Ay mama Levantate Chucha Y levantate Joana Que viene la bruja Detrás de tu hermana Levantate Pepa Y levantate Adela Que viene la bruja Detrás de tu abuela Y diga me diga Me diga me usted Cuantas creaturitas Se ha chupado usted Señora ninguna Ninguna no sé Ando en pretenciones De chuparle a usted
Ahora si maldita bruja Ya te chupaste a mi hijo Ya te chupaste a mi hijo Ahora si maldita bruja Ay mama Ahora le vas a chupar A tu marido el ombligo A tu marido el ombligo Y hasta quisiera llorar Ay mama Cuando a tu marido Le encuentro dormiendo Le arrancó las piernas Y me voy corriendo Cuando a tu marido Le encuentro dormido Le arrancó las piernas Y me voy contigo
Y diga me diga Me diga me usted Cuantas creaturitas Se ha chupado usted Señora ninguna Ninguna no sé Ando en pretenciones De chuparle a usted
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