«Ink runs from the corners of my mouth.
There is no happiness like mine.
I have been eating poetry.
The librarian does not believe what she sees.
Her eyes are sad
and she walks with her hands in her dress.
The poems are gone.
The light is dim.
The dogs are on the basement stairs and coming up.
Their eyeballs roll,
their blond legs burn like brush.
The poor librarian begins to stamp her feet and weep.
She does not understand.
When I get on my knees and lick her hand,
she screams.
I am a new man.
I snarl at her and bark.
I romp with joy in the bookish dark.»
Eating poetry, Mark Strand
7 comentários:
"The tulips are too excitable, it is winter here.
Look how white everything is, how quiet, how snowed-in
I am learning peacefulness, lying by myself quietly
As the light lies on these white walls, this bed, these hands.
I am nobody; I have nothing to do with explosions.
I have given my name and my day-clothes up to the nurses
And my history to the anaesthetist and my body to surgeons.
They have propped my head between the pillow and the sheet-cuff
Like an eye between two white lids that will not shut.
Stupid pupil, it has to take everything in.
The nurses pass and pass, they are no trouble,
They pass the way gulls pass inland in their white caps,
Doing things with their hands, one just the same as another,
So it is impossible to tell how many there are.
My body is a pebble to them, they tend it as water
Tends to the pebbles it must run over, smoothing them gently.
They bring me numbness in their bright needles, they bring me sleep.
Now I have lost myself I am sick of baggage -
My patent leather overnight case like a black pillbox,
My husband and child smiling out of the family photo;
Their smiles catch onto my skin, little smiling hooks.
I have let things slip, a thirty-year-old cargo boat
Stubbornly hanging on to my name and address.
They have swabbed me clear of my loving associations.
Scared and bare on the green plastic-pillowed trolley
I watched my teaset, my bureaus of linen, my books
Sink out of sight, and the water went over my head.
I am a nun now, I have never been so pure.
I didn't want any flowers, I only wanted
To lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty.
How free it is, you have no idea how free -
The peacefulness is so big it dazes you,
And it asks nothing, a name tag, a few trinkets.
It is what the dead close on, finally; I imagine them
Shutting their mouths on it, like a Communion tablet.
The tulips are too red in the first place, they hurt me.
Even through the gift paper I could hear them breathe
Lightly, through their white swaddlings, like an awful baby.
Their redness talks to my wound, it corresponds.
They are subtle: they seem to float, though they weigh me down,
Upsetting me with their sudden tongues and their colour,
A dozen red lead sinkers round my neck.
Nobody watched me before, now I am watched.
The tulips turn to me, and the window behind me
Where once a day the light slowly widens and slowly thins,
And I see myself, flat, ridiculous, a cut-paper shadow
Between the eye of the sun and the eyes of the tulips,
And I hve no face, I have wanted to efface myself.
The vivid tulips eat my oxygen.
Before they came the air was calm enough,
Coming and going, breath by breath, without any fuss.
Then the tulips filled it up like a loud noise.
Now the air snags and eddies round them the way a river
Snags and eddies round a sunken rust-red engine.
They concentrate my attention, that was happy
Playing and resting without committing itself.
The walls, also, seem to be warming themselves.
The tulips should be behind bars like dangerous animals;
They are opening like the mouth of some great African cat,
And I am aware of my heart: it opens and closes
Its bowl of red blooms out of sheer love of me.
The water I taste is warm and salt, like the sea,
And comes from a country far away as health."
Tulips, Sylvia Plath
oven cooked poet
«mas gosto da noite e do riso de cinzas.gosto do deserto, e do acaso da vida. gosto dos enganos, da sorte e dos encontros inesperados.
pernoito quase sempre do lado sagrado do meu coração, ou onde o medo tem a precariedade de outro corpo»
*
«no marítimo lodo da fala fazem ninho
pássaros de sal com suas asas afiadas
sulcam
o susto de ficar sozinho»
*
Al Berto, excerto de «Notas para o Diário» e de «Regresso ao Cais»
*
mais palavras para quê?
ela não cozeu, gaseou-se. não foi?uma poetisa gaseada na cozinha enquanto os dois filhos, na sala ao lado, protegidos pela improvisada calefatagem de roupas molhadas (de que cor seriam?), aguardavam uma mãe que os levasse à escola. um acto poético tão rotineiro de que ela não era, simplesmente, capaz.
chegou a confundir o forno com o chapéu, aos 11.02.1963, se não me engano, mas as biografias dos mortos podem ser romanceadas e os suicidários à procura de inspiração sustendo-a não ficam para contar que, afinal, era apenas just one more try para renascer.
e agora, passo-te este mundo, que recuso voltar a habitar.
«O texto é a única forma de identificar o sexo e a humanidade de alguém porque, ó poeta estranho, o sexo de alguém, é a sua narrativa. A sua, ou a que o texto conta, no seu lugar. Assim o sexo será como for o lugar do texto.
Quando se deseja alguém, como tu desejas Infausta, e ela deseja Johann, é o seu lugar cénico que se deseja,
os gestos do texto que descreve no espaço
e chamar-lhe
precioso companheiro;
de mim, direi que fui uma vez enviado,
trouxeste a frase que nunca antes leras,
o meu corpo a disse, e não reparaste que ficaste com ela escrita.»
Maria Gabriela Llansol, Lisboaleipzig 2, 1994 e 1995
vamos ter saudades tuas, plex! não seja lá tu quem fores para além daquilo que foste aqui. beijo de insecto alado. volta sempre que quiseres partilhar uns belos nacos de poesia e lançar palavras ao ar como quem atira pedras ao lago. só pelo prazer de ver as linhas circulares da água a cresceram para lado nenhum...
o chá está a ficar frio?
referia-me somente ao mundo da Llansol, porque um leitor tem o direito de recusar ler um autor
bolas. isto dos mal entendidos com as plavras. a minha velha presunção de ser uma feiticeira a ler nas entrelinhas... agora até estava a ficar triste. então olha, goza a canção velhota à mesma. ainda bem que não te vais embora!
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