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.

Manuel Bandeira

http://mykristeva.tumblr.com/post/167910062710/correspondência

Rimbaud

http://mykristeva.tumblr.com/post/167641038900/rimbaud-correspondência

Wislawa Szymborska

http://mykristeva.tumblr.com/post/167549171530/suninha-ambos-estão-certos-de-que-uma-paixão

Esperanto Communist Music

Verde é a cor do Esperanto. Veja a lista de canções no YT.

Yiddish-Anarchist song "In ale gasn/Hey, hey, daloy politsey!" ("Down with the police")

Rui Pires Cabral

http://mykristeva.tumblr.com/post/167483539240/poesia-colagem-dispersos-saudações-para-o

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.

Libera me, Domine

Escif

Simplicio

http://mykristeva.tumblr.com/post/167335941740/tomorrowcomesomedayblog-miguel-ángel-fuster

Mitski

http://mykristeva.tumblr.com/post/167195227750/mitski-i-bet-on-losing-dogs

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

Anne Carson

Stanzas, Sexes, Seductions

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.