quarta-feira, 24 de abril de 2013

"Just like many"

How can the artist
the one with the silver voice
and the endless courage, be
so quickly forsaken? Her man
leaves, the one
who wanted her money
or her fame. She tries to forget
the sound of the door
banging three times
in her face, heavy boots
stomping down the hall, resounding
on the floorboards like
a thousand bolting moose. She
tries to remember the sunlight
breaking on the water, remembers
her brothers coming home from
the war, the whole and the wounded
dancing on the streets, that “never again”...
She remembers, also, the last  few 
coins, the hidden letters, that one last card
and that old restlessness stirring
under layers of time, remembers
that she can still get out to the docks,
catch the next boat, step out onto the
deck and sing.

- Miriam Adelman

terça-feira, 23 de abril de 2013

Os Cachorros na Praia de Live Oaks, Santa Cruz

Primeira tentativa de versão deste poema de Alicia Ostriker.
Sugestões serão bem vindas!

Cachorros na Praia de Live Oak, Santa Cruz

 Como se existisse um mundo
De inocência absoluta
Onde esquecemos quem somos

Os donos jogam pauzinhos
E bolas de tênis meio carecas
Em direção às ondas
E seus cachorros correm alegremente atrás
Aos pulos, como se catapultados-

Cachorros pretos, dourados
Pacotes de músculo glorioso -

Em busca mais do prazer
Do que da obediência
Eles correm, esbarram na areia molhada

Por vezes, eles se atiram
Nas crista espumosa das ondas

Como pássaros que mergulham, deixando que a verde turbulência
Os jogue, até morder e afincar

Os dentes na madeira flotante
E dai voltar aos pulos para seus donos
Molhados, brilhando, na velocidade da paixão
E sem nenhum outro objetivo
Além do puro regozijo

 (versão:  Miriam Adelman)

sábado, 20 de abril de 2013

The Dogs at Live Oak Beach, Santa Cruz.

a poem by Alicia Ostriker, which I will attempt to translate soon - for all of us who seek in non-human
animals a way to connect to something we so desperately need.!

As if there could be a world
Of absolute innocence
In which we forget ourselves.

The owners throw sticks
And half-bald tennis balls
Toward the surf
And the happy dogs leap after them
As if catapulted -

Black dogs, tan dogs,
Tubes of glorious muscle-

Pursuing pleasure
More than obedience
They race, skid to a halt in the wet sand,
Sometimes they'll plunge into
The foaming breakers

Like diving birds, letting the green turbulence
Toss them, until they snap and sink

Teeth into floating wood
Then bound back to their owners
Shining wet, with passionate speed
For nothing,
For absolutely nothing but joy.

sexta-feira, 19 de abril de 2013


The busy periphery of the city, workers and shoppers trudging the muddled and muddied Saturday streets for a few last chances before the awnings go up and the metal doors down and all goes silent until the new week begins, its repetitions and eternal hopes for god's blessings, for better sales, and may health linger. Cheap boots with a fake furry lining on display, and he says 'the price is good', and i say, 'yeah, you won't get far in those,' and we get back into the car, for we've only come here to help his friend with a delivery, and i sit beside him and we watch a mother and daughter go by, hefty long-skirted lady with a bible and the girl in her tight-jeaned youth and he sneaks a peek out of the corner of his eye and i look around and say 'this place is depressing, let's get the hell outta here' and i know i am saying goodbye today and i can´t quite believe i had to come to this place to do it.