Visit the link below to check out my contribution to the #maisarte Arts Fair and Exhibit, Serra do Cipó,
Minas Gerais , May 17th -21st, 2025
Visite o link abaixo para conhecer minha contribuição à Exposição #Maisarte Serra do Cipó, Minas Gerais, 17-21 de maio de 2025.
https://drive.google.com/file/d/14eIo540Fn-y0y9WsMnLdYn0POuwTg3XI/view?usp=sharing
Farmers’ market
Though the brown bags of organic rice
dwindle and cost us um olho da cara bananas
are stacked in full cornucopia: the green
the yellow and the aging in their encroaching
stains of brown just perfect for the penelopes
who perch in waiting in our own backyard.
Mangoes are here in defiant heaps anxious to
show off their succulence avocados sit like
a healthy capsule of the local on their curvy bottoms
while broccolis curl in shrunken plummage.
Inside their jagged armor the artichoke
hearts are hardening to the humans who juggle
price vs. taste tomatoes have been
squeezed and picked through and left to leak
a thinning blood into the bottom of their boxes
and there’s not much lettuce or cucumber with this
rainfall in its coming and goings spurts of too much
and months of too little. Like any latecomer
I shuffle remainders the die-hard apples
the weathered strawberries and the thinning
mounds of onion and garlic pure staples of flavor
for our steaming dinners as the cold months head in:
moments of sharing our darkest fears
our treasured acquaintance with truce and peace
our shelter - for now or forever ? - from
deprivation.
A casinha de bonecas de papel, quase invisível
no mar de laranjais, iluminado apenas pelas chamas
oscilantes de um incêndio de lixo
A casinha de salto alto, molhada pelo surfista
de cabelos loiros, iluminada apenas pela
luz do luar, refletida num Frisbee
A casa dos marinheiros e dos bêbados,
a casa onde a menina se escondeu num armário com seu
livro,
a casa com flamingos cor de rosa no espelho da sala
a casa onde o piano se erguia rigidamente como uma
solteirona
sentada num baile
Estas casas nunca tinham escadarias espaçosas
ou prata nos aparadores, nunca tinham
Steinways pretos, suas tampas abertas
à seda e à fumaça do charuto,
nunca tinham quartos cobertos de
estantes de livros, com carvalho velho, couro,
nenhum vinho do porto numa cava, e ela nem era
a menina do papai, apenas uma criança em forma de xale,
tornozelos e pulsos grossos, criança idosa,
uma pequena bruxa
em uma casinha,
na floresta - na verdade,
no sul da Califórnia o nome é
laranjal.
tradução: Miriam Adelman
Para ver o original:
https://www.rattle.com/orange-groves-fairy-tales-by-diane-wakoski/
Young lady on white horse
Stopping dead in her tracks
I couldn’t tell if it was acquiescence
Or reproach. Still I shot – I was new to the trade
Avid hunter of images and what could be
More perfect: the light reflecting up from
The white of a mane and flooding her
Face, its pride or consternation. A mare
With a wide chest. Their clarity amidst
A blur of other bodies. A blur of green bushes
I turned into all those tones of grey.
That was long ago. Young but already
Bending into the wicked curves of the road
At full gallop. Late lunch at the church
And men downing their beers, laughing and
Gurgling into the overcast afternoon. She’s
Looking down at me now, still enigma.
Still my best shot ever.
Visit the link below to check out my contribution to the #maisarte Arts Fair and Exhibit, Serra do Cipó, Minas Gerais , May 17th -21st, 2...
