sábado, 26 de abril de 2014
terça-feira, 8 de abril de 2014
nos resta – quando encontrou
na parte de cima do armário, o velho
colete de seda que ele usava. Ela me chamou
para vê-lo, desenrolando-o com cuidado
como se alguma coisa viva pudesse
cair dele. Então o estendemos
sobre a mesa da cozinha alisando
as rugas, nossas mãos pesadas até
ele voltar à sua forma sobre a formica
e as pequenas pontas que indicariam
os bolsos ficarem lisas. Os botões estavam todo
intactos. Estendi meus braços e ela
passou as grandes cavas da manga
por eles. “Isso é algo que nunca tive vontade
de ser”, disse ela, “um homem”.
Fui para o banheiro para ver
como me veia nesse brilho, nessa
tristeza. Sinos de vento desafinados
na alcova. E ela que começou
a chorar pelo que eu me afastei
contra a luz da pia onde a porcelana
tinha fixado seu olhar. É hora de acudir a ela
pensei eu, com essa outra parte da mente,
e fiquei imóvel.
She was cleaning – there is always
that to do – when she found,
at the top of the closet, his old
silk vest. She called me
to look at it, unrolling it carefully
like something live
might fall out. Then we spread it
on the kitchen table and smoothed
the wrinkles down, making our hands
heavy until its shape against Formica
came back and the little tips
that would have pointed to his pockets
lay flat. The buttons were all there.
I held my arms out and she
looped the wide armholes over them.
“That’s one thing I never
wanted to be”, she said, “a man.”
I went into the bathroom to see
how I looked in the sheen and
sadness. Wind chimes
off- key in the alcove. Then her
crying so I stood back in the sink-light
where the porcelain had been staring. Time
to go to her, I thought, with that
other mind, and stood still.
( I wrote this while reading Troia: Mexican memoirs,
by Beat writer Bonnie Bremser; I dedicate it to her!)
once or twice, for love.
And that’s it. Others,
perhaps, for money, or
for someone to bring you across
a thinning bridge, a fractured
border. The bells are ringing
at the top of the mountain,
the place where the pilgrims
went on their grueling journey,
on hands and knees the last few miles.
Yellow mutts barking into the
morning sun. You know
no one will believe your story.
And the baby, she just won´t stop
that damn crying.
Apostas Altas (primeira tentativa de tradução)
Há coisas que você faz
uma ou duas vezes
por amor. E é isso.
Outras, talvez, por dinheiro,
ou para que alguém
te atravesse uma ponte que está
minguando, alguma fronteira fraturada.
Os sinos estão tocando
no alto da montanha,
aquele lugar onde os peregrinos
chegavam da maçante romaria,
andando as últimas milhas de quatro.
Vira-latas amarelos latem ao sol da manhã.
Você sabe que ninguém vai acreditar
nessa versão que você conta. E o neném, que
não quer parar com essa puta
- Miriam Adelman
sexta-feira, 4 de abril de 2014
One stop at Mac’s Back’s book store
Lost me $13.84 and there it was I gained Diane’s words
Between shocking purple printed design, it was
Singing to me for years and I finally caught on
And I was in luck, the book was signed on the front page,
I knew I had a treasure
This cool chic with her Buddhist alibi beats rantings on
And casually speaking of Ginsberg, Pound
I had to stop in the street and pull the baby’s carriage back
A bit and put the paperback in my pocket
Before we lost our lives.
Yeah, that good.
Like this wheel goin’ round, the words opening that
Revolving door where the enlightened ones are sitting
Back there with mighty pen shields and great laughter
That ease the tears of poets-
And we’re all cryin with our heads on someone’s
Plate dressed like a puppet
Our strings out of tune
Our strings badly bruised
Our strings made of telephone wires and t.v. cords and grape vine wraths and ignoramus antidotes and media frenzies and salon-styled politics and staturistic stimulus and economic blunders and cold, hard cash and forgotten souls dangling from gold plated rope-
With our necks stuck out on America’s doormats, waiting
For the Feds to bust in waiving rifles
At frail children like they did Elian, so we can burn tires in the street and scream “ AMERICA, WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!”
This book in my pocket vibrating like a bomb
Her words a wailing out all over the pages
I sit down on the concrete grass and turn out the goods of the poet,
Wondering, if we shall ever stop crying.
copywrite 1996 kara E Goergen