The Power and the Glory

There was silence all around him.

That place was very much like the world:

overcrowded with lust and crime

and unhappy love.

It stank of heaven.

But he realized that after all

it was possible to find peace there

if you knew for certain

that the time was short.

The lightning shot down over the harbor

and the thunder beat upon the roof.

That was the atmosphere
of a whole state—the storm outside

and the talk just going on—terms like

'mystery' and 'soul' and 'the source of life'

came up over and over again

as they sat on the bed talking

with nothing to do and

nothing to believe and 

nowhere to go.

2011

it gets very tricky when you try to think

about W.B Yeats and poetry durin' the 30's

while encapsulated by vibrating ends

of metal and yellowed plastic stopped still

in front of a red light.

the fumes of the engine are no longer industrial revolution

and the explosion of bombs no longer progress

so how did the post-war period influenced

the future of lines and words

and changed writing forever...

while this bus keeps moving forward

through our own time's graveyard;

a wasteland of garbage we no longer need,

televisions and scattered papers, bed-frames,

empty pot-plants and old vacuum-cleaners.

Bukowski said people look like flowers at last

but today, walking down these streets,

we all still look a lot more like broken glass,

like the heat when it hangs in the air,

like the urge to forget.

The Mad Square

I stare at a blank page thinking of names,

promising myself that I will never write

just for writing

and that I'll never use a word

to describe an empty space.

Robinson Jeffers,

Rimbaud,

Rachmaninoff,

someone asked for directions to Goulburn Street but I couldn't answer.

too many names in my head I guess,

too many pictures of desperation, hunger, war, prostitution and

persecution, disease and power and propaganda.

The Mad Square.

this poem exists for one reason only,

a humble tune for brave people in mad times

when the last of us lost all humanity, every dime and every meal

but not hope

or the strength to fill our lungs

and scream.

At Joan's

são quase três horas

e eu me apoio no topo de mármore da mesa

organizando poemas, miserável

a pequena lâmpada que quase não brilha

enquanto eu não brilho nada

eu tomo outro conhaque

e olho dois pequenos quadros

de Jean Paul, tão grande

eu preciso fazer tanto

ou eles apenas acontecem

a brisa é fresca

quase som algum é filtrado

através desses olhos cansados

sozinho por mim mesmo

não consigo encontrar um só poema de verdade

e se não acontecer comigo

então o que farei

(Poema traduzido de Frank O'Hara)

To Have and Have Not.

alguns fizeram a longa queda

da janela do apartamento ou escritório;

alguns tomaram quietos, em silêncio,

em uma garagem de dois carros com um motor ligado;

alguns usaram a tradição de uma Colt ou de uma Smith and Wesson;

aqueles tão bem desenvolvidos implementos

que acabam com a insônia, terminam remorso, curam câncer,

salvam da falência e acabam com as repetidas músicas na cabeça

explodindo uma saída de posições intoleráveis através da pressão de um dedo;

admiráveis instrumentos americanos tão facilmente portáteis,

carregados de efeito, tão bem desenhados pra terminar

o sonho americano quando se torna pesadelo.

(Ernest Hemingway, trecho traduzido.)