sexta-feira, 29 de janeiro de 2016

a chance of dust

When all alibis fail there is always
  that cloud of dust.  The bunch
 of cowboys tearing off into the hills
leave it in their wake, or the tattooed
 biker who leaves the curb at one hundred
 per hour,  a sting of plastic colors
 for this frustrated summer
flying in your face.  It sweeps in
   from a devastated landscape
       or  a bad dream, or
         a once read novel 
by folks  with gritty hair
and unsung stories.  Or maybe
floats in because just this once, the 
rain holds back.  Because the
winds you no longer expected
surprise you with a turn for
the worse.  It can in fact
happen to anyone.  Nothing to
be done.  So let´s just take life
as it is, at least for today. Come,
let's drink from these cups of water
or better yet, toast to  the hearty excuse: 
the clarity that just wasn´t 
 there, the foiled shots and the
  soiled lenses.  Why after all
not rejoice at enigma, that
forever blurred attempt to
capture what might come


-   miriam adelman

quarta-feira, 6 de janeiro de 2016

From Assia Djebar, "Fantasia: an Algerian cavalcade".

"When I am growing up, shortly before my native land throws off the colonial yoke - while the man still has the right to four legitimate wives, we girls, big and little, have at our command four languages to express desire before all that is left to us is sighs and moans:  French for secret missives; Arabic for our stifled aspirations toward God-the-father, the God of the religions of the Book; Lybico-Berber which takes us back to the pagan idols - mother-gods - of pre-Islamic  Mecca.  The fourth language, for all females,  young or old, cloistered or half-emancipated, remains that of the body;  the body which male neighbors' and cousins' eyes require to be deaf and blind, since they cannot completely incarcerate it; the body which, in trances, dances or vociferations, in fits of hope or despair, rebels, and unable to read or write, seeks some unknown shore as destination for its message of love".


sábado, 2 de janeiro de 2016

something broken

one day soon, here
between mountains and what is left
of sky, the pounding rain will
begin to still.  the light
refracting from a single drop
will seep   back in, past the ruins of
flood, and then comes the hour to return
to the pieces, to discover what part
of the fence has fallen, return some
mortar to the bridge,  notes from
a melody  trickling back in, so we can
roll up our  sleeves, get on with the task,
sweat to rebuild to the sound of a voice
that has lost its master.