terça-feira, 22 de março de 2016

contingências

(escrevi ano passado, traduzi recentemente)

Contingências

Por vezes, a simples falta de
postura devasta tudo. Ou a abertura
pequena  por onde a luz entra sem querer
numa cena de escuridão perfeita.
Porém outras vezes não
se trata de detalhes, nem
 faltam lente, lupa ou
binóculos.  Deu incêndio.  Estava
na cara,  todo mundo já percebia:
o carteiro, a professora, o gari que
varria a rua.  Só você,
menina boba, que não percebia,
Quem nunca quis estudar
o roteiro,  quem sempre foi
impaciência pura.

domingo, 13 de março de 2016

the stones (Teotihuacán)

So, cleaning out drawers and file cabinets may be a
 very tedious endeavor, butsometimes you find poems from
 10, 20, 30 years back... some are good, some are
hopeless, and some worth reworking, like - I think - this one:

the stones  (teotihuacán)

i.

it had rained that day
among the pyramids.
slow climb up the rocks
under the sun as ancient
as midday, as the corn planters.
raspy tongues of stone
serpents against my bare
arms, jaguar eyes catching the
rays, coming to life

coatlicue the mexica
came back across the centuries
laughing at the whiteness of my legs
and warning me, beware of the
barbudos.  i in my foolish haste
 opened that night to my first
 love,  readied for whatever
comes next

ii.

a jagged crater
like the mouth of the
world, a place to feel small in,
fragile perhaps but not too
fragile for the load:  pebble,
boulder, the labor
of dragging  the stones.

iii.

but there were other words
too.  and a wordless language.
at dusk, the sharing of
strangeness.  a pocket of
warmth.  someone who listened.
we groped for each other across the
distance of darkness, each from
one side, against the beaded
screen of nightfall.

iv.

there is a window in this house
of stone.  old  shutters that keep
banging open and shut, and then,
open again. a shifting sky.  i go out
into the quarry, but  the stones are
just too heavy.  there is a bent shape
on the horizon, back turned toward me,
heading down the road toward
the pueblo.   a woman in feather
and rags, a silvery braid the thickness
of centuries. she pivots on her
bare feet,  shields her eyes, a gaze,
wry laughter, then pivots again. could this 
be it? come back, Coatlicue
teach me something i haven´t
yet learned.