segunda-feira, 30 de janeiro de 2012

the seriousness of coffee

time is measured
in cigarette ends
asleep in the ashtray
and in how many times
we reheat coffee


I do remember the schooldays
and how the days back then used to last longer.
months went by slowly after every other week,
melting into each other in long intervals of waiting,
a yearning to reach a life that seemed so distant.

We really thought the time would never come
and we dared pretend we did not care. maybe we didn't.
who would think you could look back at what you had
and still call it past. when it was present, you did not believe it-
and we all longed for a fast-way out to future, the morrow
we could never quite see coming.

I knew then that we would spend our days as we do
but I thought we would all be proud of it. we are not.
and now we wait for time to pass again
and for present to turn itself into something else. it cannot.
looking in the mirror, I recall what someone told me once: that
there is no future where there was never life-
so let it be life, and wait no more.





quarta-feira, 25 de janeiro de 2012

espero para ver
(segue alguns poemas antigos que achei)




eu espero pra ver
o que vai ser

daquelas ruas à noite
e de todas as andanças
por elas madrugada a dentro;

de todos aqueles postos
de gasolina,

das garrafas enfileiradas,
vazias,
sem mais nada dentro;

pra ver o que
vai ser
de toda a chuva
que caiu,

do ônibus que corta
a 3ª perimetral
a mais de 80 por hora,

do maço de cigarros
que eu acabei mesmo assim
comprando;

vai ser o que
daquela vez
que eu quis te ver?

dos túneis, das pistas,
dos muros, dos prédios,
dos murros, do tédio,

de tudo que é sério;

eu espero pra ver
o que é que
vai ficar,
o que é que vai ser
se eu não souber segurar.





eu e o mundo




que eu é esse

que, indivíduo,

sente todas as dores do mundo?


que eu é esse,

eu absurdo, que era um ontem,

é outro hoje

e que amanhã será inda outro?


que eu é esse meu Deus,

esse eu que guardo no íntimo meu,

que é eu mas não fala de mim,

que fala do fundo, fala de tudo,

que busca em vão o toque da mão?


que eu é esse que é outro alguém?

que eu é esse

que é ninguém.
Memory




snow fell heavily

during last night's sleep;


I was dreaming

about your belly

and the sweet shape of your knees.


and so I saw nothing,

hardly anything

of that white storm;


I was half-dead sleeping

and  remember no more.
Recordações do Escrivão






"Tenho muita saudade", disse, pensando em voltar.
Sentir saudade. Movido por quase qualquer cancão.
Sentir a falta de. O peso da escrita antes de morrer.

Também, de certo modo, ter falhado. Seu destino ao alcool atribulado,
ao hospital psiquiátrico, às crises de depressão.
Na ficha médica lia-se neurastenia, não sonhador.

Tudo pelos pobres e arruinados, os que sentiam como ele
algo como ter perdido a chance. O desencontro entre
arte e mercado, a recusa de versos mecânicos por notas
ou um lugar sentado na Academia.

O triste fim
de Policarpo Quaresma e outros tantos, tão cedo,
tão desacreditados. Sentir saudade. Sentir a falta de.

A expressão do abismo existente na vida real. Imenso.
Em que aquele refém dos princípios do ideal, tenso,
testemunha qualidades se tornarem defeitos.

Lima Barreto, ontem ouvi teu nome no rádio depois de muito tempo.
Senti saudade. Senti saudade de gente que não se conforme.
Gente capaz de arte de verdade, sem dinheiro, luzes ou aplausos,
mesmo á beira da mais desesperadora loucura.

terça-feira, 24 de janeiro de 2012






ando assim pela rua
à noite
tão fria e escura
sozinho
eu converso comigo
mesmo e sonho
o tempo todo
com o dia
se um dia contigo
andarei de novo

segunda-feira, 23 de janeiro de 2012

To Walk Those Streets Again





That night, sitting in that wooden table,
I just wanted to tell them that I had
found and lost what no one else seemed
to be looking for any longer: That love;

even I
had given up before, many times more
than I cared to remember.

I remembered yet another night too,
many months before, riding the 373 bus
back from the city, alone in the front seat
around 4am considering shooting myself in the head
but knowing all the way that the saddest thing of all was
that I actually did not own a gun of any sort.
I felt like crying desperate tears
like I'd never felt in all these years.

It would have been good
if I could have met myself that night, in the bus,
to tell my own self what I could not say the other night,
sitting in the wooden table:
that time would change, as it does,
and that I was not to find only sorrow
but also in us, my only chances of tomorrow.

sábado, 21 de janeiro de 2012

we, too, found love.






because there is nothing
like having
that perspective back,
that for a moment
if nothing else
you could keep that forever,
that faith in yourself
and the world
when feeling her eyes staring yet
for another instant,
believing finally
that life was something we all could reach for-
and touch.

sexta-feira, 20 de janeiro de 2012

A Carta de Augustin Meaulness(tradução de trecho de Alain Fournier)





Ainda passo por aquela janela. Ainda aguardo,
sem a menor esperança, por pura e simples loucura. Ao fim dos domingos frios
do outono, quando a noite vem caindo, não consigo
suportar retornar à casa e cerrar as cortinas das janelas sem antes voltar
lá, naquela rua gelada.

Sou como a velha louca de Sainte-Agathe que saía a frente de casa
o tempo todo, o olhar focado em direção à estação para ver se o filho
morto voltaria um dia para casa. Sentado no banco, tremendo, miserável, gosto
de imaginar que alguém irá gentilmente me apanhar o braço...

Olharei em volta e ela estará alí. "Estou um pouco atrasada," ela dirá,
simplesmente. E tanto o sofrimento quanto a loucura hão de desaparecer.
Iremos juntos pra casa. Seu casaco frio, gelado, seu véu úmido.
Ela trazendo consigo o gosto da névoa do lado de fora e, se aproximando
do fogo, vagarosamente para que eu possa enfim perceber
seus frios cabelos dourados e seu lindo perfil de doces traços
inclinando-se suavemente, pra sempre sobre as chamas...

quinta-feira, 19 de janeiro de 2012

versos traduzidos de "The Flaw", de Robert Lowell.





...
Nós também nos projetamos à frente, enquanto a onda de calor acalma
os nossos corpos, tornada insensível,
prestes a desaparecer dentro da alma,
dois grãos ou a visão perturbada, o invisível. . . .
A esperança dos desesperados lançada e abandonada ao poente
no grande equívoco que concede o último presente.

Cara Figura curvando-se como ponto de interrogação,
como houvirás minha resposta em meio a escuridão ?

quarta-feira, 18 de janeiro de 2012

Alfred Corning Clark
(1916-1961)
poema traduzido de Robert Lowell




Você lia o New York Times
todos os dias no intervalo,
mas no seu seco
obituário, a lista
de suas esposas, nada novo
além do anel de noivado de
noventa e cinco mil dólares
com o qual você presentou
a sexta.
Pobre menino rico,
você foi maduro até demais
em saber esperar,
e morreu com quarenta e cinco.
Pobre Al Clark,
por trás de sua foto ampliada
quase irreconhecível,
eu sinto a dor.
Você estava vivo. Agora está morto.
Você vestia gravata-borboleta
e casaco azul escuro, e mascava
capim ou canela
pra adocicar o hálito.
Há de haver alguma coisa-
alguém pra cantar
sua vacilação triunfante,
sua recusa ao esforço,
a inteligência
que pulsava nas sensíveis,
pálidas concavidades de sua testa.
Você jamais trabalhou,
e foi terceiro da classe.
Eu te devo algo-
eu era confuso,
e você por demais entediado,
rápido e frio para rir.
Você é bem quisto por mim, Alfred;
nossa almas relutantes unidas
no nosso não-convencional
jogo de xadrez ilegal
no pátio da escola de St.Mark.
Você quase sempre ganhou-
sem movimento
como um lagarto no sol.
Luto





luto
para que recordemos daqueles
que acabaram ficando para trás,
daqueles doentes
ou perturbados de solidão
de sonhos desistidos
em fins de tardes de verão.
Unceased





it has been months since I last dreamt
and I sometimes wonder if that is where
a true story is born.
for ever starting, but never quite finishing
anything anymore.

what are we all getting ready for
as we watch our dreams go by, unoticed,
unremembered, unreal.

the success of others
will eventually bear my own failure,at last
a last movement of the pen, a testimony-
of our unfitting destiny.

cry no more as the hours go by, the ashes
of every wasted minute on the clock
and be afraid no more if the light never flashes-
because it is life still,
the eternal light of the will.

domingo, 15 de janeiro de 2012

Uma Fábula




o mundo moderno é uma guerra antiga
sem fim, uma batalha de décadas
através de todas as terras
que ninguém recorda do começo.

há tantos anos imersos, escondidos
entre buracos e trincheiras,
viciados em medo e sem futuro, ninguém,
pessoa alguma consegue imaginar
a vida de outra forma.

que mesmo que um só regimento
se negasse um dia qualquer
a realizar dado ataque, um motin, cessar
fogo por completo,
ninguém suportaria o vazio
ou tãopouco o silêncio contido.

multidões correriam confusas, desnorteadas
entre as vilas e cidades
e entre salas de palácios da justiça
os generais das nações envolvidas
se reuniriam em paz a decidir

o fuzilamento de todos os envolvidos
e o recomeço sem atraso dos bombardeios.
Last day down at the beach





a sin is like a trace
of ink.

it can be overlooked,
mastered,
maybe even erased.

but that bit of paper
will remember forever
when for a moment,
touching,

they found each other.

quarta-feira, 11 de janeiro de 2012

Antes que faça sol



que a vida passa, sim, eu sei
e que nada dura pra sempre.

que viver é perder, deixar de
ser, sim, isso eu também sei.

então porquê mais viver
senão
por um simples gesto de perdão
um poema ou triste canção
que segure entre os dedos da mão
todo
o segundo que contêm o mundo.

mas o segundo é o tempo
e o tempo passa porque se move
como a vida, tendendo sempre
a algum desfecho.

mas os versos, sempre que abertos,
contêm a vida que retorna,
que move mas por memória
como um espelho de outras glórias;
o poema só, eterno.



Adeus Ainda




daquela semana no mês de janeiro
eu lembro
quando fecho os olhos
dos teus olhos e do voo dos pássaros
teu sono contra o meu corpo.

outro copo de café
e a lembrança é como as ruas da cidade,
qualquer cidade,
familiares e quase repetidas,
inundadas de passos novos
de velhas pessoas.

a impressão ainda
de nunca ter andado ali, de fato,
de nunca ter visto o quadro todo.

que ontem não encerrou
e eu hoje vivi sem acordar
sem poder dormir ou correr
risco de te esquecer.

sábado, 7 de janeiro de 2012

Goodbye still





he knew when he woke up
and reached instantly for the phone
that if there were to be words in there
they were bound to be last.

they would be words of a final goodbye,
words that could not take him out
of the bedroom
or bring her closer to him, not now,
maybe not even someday.

the words were there
and they were good to him
at the same time that they could hurt, lonely
as not having anything to hope for.

he thought about lions in Africa
and how the mother would have to
eventually watch one of her
precious cubs suddenly disappearing
into the midst of the dark waters of the river-

she knew like he knew
that the world could be cold because of love,
and because we all had to lose what we loved.

silence was a condemnation
and they both felt the weight of fate
as they turned away-
they were turning their backs on the past,
on the pride that was so desperate to be rid of them.

quinta-feira, 5 de janeiro de 2012

Dangling Man





it rained that hard that night
that he could swear he heard
the walls of the world shaking

the sound of planes in the sky
she was leaving
and lightning and thunders made sure
to carry every drop of rain
from heaven to earth
straight to the ground

every sidewalk turned river
as every bit of what he knew as life
turned love
and he had to watch it being washed away

quarta-feira, 4 de janeiro de 2012

For you, with love.




and so it was
that at least for a few days
he was reminded
that life could be something different

something else besides deep thinking
constant pondering
and profound reflections
on the nature of life and man
humanity and the world of god-

none of that was real anymore
when she took of her clothes
and laid naked next to him

the most beautiful thing
he had ever seen or felt

and for days that was all he could
think of
knowing all the way she was bound to go
as he was bound to leave soon too

it would not last
and nothing could hurt like that could

like being happy at last in a dream
but waking in an empty bed alone
the fear of the notion
that he would never have her again

all he wanted to do was to say goodbye
and tell her how special she was
how he would carry her eyes along
wherever he went
and that not even time could fade that away





segunda-feira, 2 de janeiro de 2012

And a happy new year for you too.



once again I waited
for something to happen
for a call late at night
or the sound of a message-

when I didn't wait
things seemed to take quite
a different path; that's how she came
to me, that lonely new year's eve, me-
drunk on fine whiskey.

someone offered her a plastic
crate to sit on, the one with
the folded towel on top
so it would be more comfortable-

she refused it smiling
and holding a half-empty bottle of beer
she came near me
and sat on my lap.

I did not say anything
as she turned her head and looked at me
out of the corner of her bright black eyes-

next time she did so I kissed her.

I could taste the beer in her breath
as I am sure she could taste whiskey
in mine-
forgiveness,
some sort of simple redemption.

I held her close for as long as I could
and when she asked me
whether she should spend the night
I told her no-

I got to like her that much
that I just wanted it to last.




Bukowski's Tapes




I had reasons for not being in that picture,
that day or night, for not being there.

I was behind that light, holding the camera still-
I wasn't a part of it, and I could never be.

I still had to go out and see
what I had to see. That something I had to feel.
It has always been that way too, and habits and years
changed what they could
but nothing else. Some went to search for it
in bullfights across Spain, in wars, racetracks
and barfights, jail and debt and loss. They were
all waiting on god or the worst,
all or the end. None could have it all, and he knew it,
but the grace was in running the race anyway,
knowing you would never win, never quite touch it.

I had a voice I would always listen to,
words I would hear despite the worst kind of madness-
that poetry was the only thing alive
in places and people that life no longer cared for.

Desperation came from life and death,
and the thought would never let me breathe right.

Now I hear him saying over a cigarette that he too
sometimes just needed to lay down in bed, alone,
sometimes for days, in silence, away from people,
to be fulfilled by the absolute absence of humanity.

The world could be as lonely
as lonely faces in the newspapers and magazines.

And that would get me ready to go back out,
walk the blocks and streets down
and endure what I was supposed to endure, none the different
nor special, just
the sweet agony of not even wanting for a chance.




She was smart too




there she is, standing right
at the end of the ramp
facing the back of the truck.
apparently she's been looking at me
but I would not know
as all I can look at
is the floor.

I can't talk either
while she keeps asking
"doesn't he talk?" and
"why doesn't he talk?" and
"I haven't heard him say a word" she says.
my boss assures her that yes,
I do talk
although not much at all.

worst thing is
I think I already love her-
but things don't become something
just because we want them to be
and so it is that I didn't even feel
how it would feel to have her
as I lost her leaving forever.