1.
As he traversed the threshold he perceived,
resisting being blinded by fear’s cold grip,
he was not the same person who had leaved,
after having slept and waken up dreamingly.
Sure that the bus from downtown had dropped him
at the same stop he’d been caught that same morning,
and, walking down the street, he was let in
a house whose dog barked in familiar tones.
He hushed to himself, because he could not
talk of all the things that no longer talked:
for there were no more flower, jug or couch
anywhere around. Though there was plain light,
the single thing that he still could make out
was the broad soaring emptiness of daylight.
2.
he moves about himself and sees
the other surface of things,
the one mirrors do not disclose,
the one we can’t see with eyes wide open
he goes past them listening to their chatter,
he still doesn’t know he is there no longer,
or that he simply is where they are already,
where they were quietly waiting on his comeback
he tries and realises he cannot recall his name,
smiling, he thinks he probably will not miss it,
maybe the name gave away but he persisted
picking his path into a nameless domain
there he watches again his joys and pains
but either with equal serenity, or then with eyes
stirred with both oblivion and understanding:
so walks the man safe from life again
vainly the roads vary from one to the other,
vainly the roads vary from one to the next day,
so walks the man in his death,
not one dead man in particular
but the one who finally made it to be no one,
and understands he is the same as each and every man,
because every dead man is the same man,
and each way he treads, his one single way
3.
as Janus’ neighbouring heads
do not communicate,
the future flows from the past
but won’t tell where it aims
we are like a third head,
blinded with both hope and regret,
but which a day shall watch over time
with that other form of non-seeing
we call forgiveness
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
SO WALKS THE MAN IN HIS DEATH
1.
As he traversed the threshold he perceived,
resisting being blinded by fear’s cold grip,
he was not the same person who had leaved,
after having slept and waken up dreamingly.
Sure that the bus from downtown had dropped him
at the same stop he’d been caught that same morning,
and, walking down the street, he was let in
a house whose dog barked in familiar tones.
He hushed to himself, because he could not
talk of all the things that no longer talked:
for there were no more flower, jug or couch
anywhere around. Though there was plain light,
the single thing that he still could make out
was the broad soaring emptiness of daylight.
2.
he moves about himself and sees
the other surface of things,
the one mirrors do not disclose,
the one we can’t see with eyes wide open
he goes past them listening to their chatter,
he still doesn’t know he is there no longer,
or that he simply is where they are already,
where they were quietly waiting on his comeback
he tries and realises he cannot recall his name,
smiling, he thinks he probably will not miss it,
maybe the name gave away but he persisted
picking his path into a nameless domain
there he watches again his joys and pains
but either with equal serenity, or then with eyes
stirred with both oblivion and understanding:
so walks the man safe from life again
vainly the roads vary from one to the other,
vainly the roads vary from one to the next day,
so walks the man in his death,
not one dead man in particular
but the one who finally made it to be no one,
and understands he is the same as each and every man,
because every dead man is the same man,
and each way he treads, his one single way
3.
as Janus’ neighbouring heads
do not communicate,
the future flows from the past
but won’t tell where it aims
we are like a third head,
blinded with both hope and regret,
but which a day shall watch over time
with that other form of non-seeing
we call forgiveness
As he traversed the threshold he perceived,
resisting being blinded by fear’s cold grip,
he was not the same person who had leaved,
after having slept and waken up dreamingly.
Sure that the bus from downtown had dropped him
at the same stop he’d been caught that same morning,
and, walking down the street, he was let in
a house whose dog barked in familiar tones.
He hushed to himself, because he could not
talk of all the things that no longer talked:
for there were no more flower, jug or couch
anywhere around. Though there was plain light,
the single thing that he still could make out
was the broad soaring emptiness of daylight.
2.
he moves about himself and sees
the other surface of things,
the one mirrors do not disclose,
the one we can’t see with eyes wide open
he goes past them listening to their chatter,
he still doesn’t know he is there no longer,
or that he simply is where they are already,
where they were quietly waiting on his comeback
he tries and realises he cannot recall his name,
smiling, he thinks he probably will not miss it,
maybe the name gave away but he persisted
picking his path into a nameless domain
there he watches again his joys and pains
but either with equal serenity, or then with eyes
stirred with both oblivion and understanding:
so walks the man safe from life again
vainly the roads vary from one to the other,
vainly the roads vary from one to the next day,
so walks the man in his death,
not one dead man in particular
but the one who finally made it to be no one,
and understands he is the same as each and every man,
because every dead man is the same man,
and each way he treads, his one single way
3.
as Janus’ neighbouring heads
do not communicate,
the future flows from the past
but won’t tell where it aims
we are like a third head,
blinded with both hope and regret,
but which a day shall watch over time
with that other form of non-seeing
we call forgiveness
DE LA LOI DE L'ASCENSEUR OU COMMENT LES DERNIERS SERONT LES PREMIERS OU VICE-VERSA PAS NECESSAIREMENT DANS CET ORDRE
Le roi pécheur et le roi pêcheur ont parié sur une course.
Le premier est arrivé gagnant par la tricherie de changer les noms des routes.
Le dernier a consenti qu’il faut savoir perdre et l’autre lui a remporté la coupe.
Celle que personne a vue sans disputes et d’où Jésus aurait ôté nos dernières gouttes.
Le premier est arrivé gagnant par la tricherie de changer les noms des routes.
Le dernier a consenti qu’il faut savoir perdre et l’autre lui a remporté la coupe.
Celle que personne a vue sans disputes et d’où Jésus aurait ôté nos dernières gouttes.
THE PROMISE
I promise you though
that from the day on
I will be gone
no one will get to hear from
me for ever after.
As you have already heard me swear
after the day I will have I left her
no trace of my ways
may be found in spare
when or wherever.
From the distances I will have got
I pledge not to come back again,
be it in your remembrance,
be it in my own presence, beyond
any of my canniest second thoughts.
By then possibly no one could
have ever been warned for good
about what I did or should
before the day and after
I had gone and walked on her.
The day I will go, I must be gone
as I had never gone before,
for that day on I will have sworn
for once and all that I shall no more
pack and swear and beg her.
that from the day on
I will be gone
no one will get to hear from
me for ever after.
As you have already heard me swear
after the day I will have I left her
no trace of my ways
may be found in spare
when or wherever.
From the distances I will have got
I pledge not to come back again,
be it in your remembrance,
be it in my own presence, beyond
any of my canniest second thoughts.
By then possibly no one could
have ever been warned for good
about what I did or should
before the day and after
I had gone and walked on her.
The day I will go, I must be gone
as I had never gone before,
for that day on I will have sworn
for once and all that I shall no more
pack and swear and beg her.
HOW THE STORY GOES
I lift them all up
with my bare hands,
just to take a closer look,
these late ones on a yellowing picture.
They grin a bit falsely, as they should,
but I get this uncanny impression
they also gaze at me
curiously,
as if they were watching a film or a TV show,
just wondering
what would happen next,
how the story would go.
I know how it ends, for sure.
I will be over their mantelpieces
just doing the same,
watching a nephew’s, a niece’s
act from a photo frame.
with my bare hands,
just to take a closer look,
these late ones on a yellowing picture.
They grin a bit falsely, as they should,
but I get this uncanny impression
they also gaze at me
curiously,
as if they were watching a film or a TV show,
just wondering
what would happen next,
how the story would go.
I know how it ends, for sure.
I will be over their mantelpieces
just doing the same,
watching a nephew’s, a niece’s
act from a photo frame.
BRAND NEW IDEAS FOR A BACK ISSUE
To my lung's disgrace I never took on smoking for my own lungs' sake.
To the astonishment of my hands, I never committed a single lame poem without putting them to blame.
Yes, I've always drunk just over-much but won't raise a toast once to the dizziness of my stomach.
I never offered my busy seat to the comfort of my tired hips, nor settled my lap to nestle upon my lap.
Nope, never really got used to having my sleep induced with the help of self-hypnotherapy.
Nor did I bother to take my hat off when saw me coming, but always came past me with hat on and hair needing combing.
I never pulled my bootlaces to raise myself above the ground, instead highly recommend lifts, angels, opiates, lunar parks.
It takes the whole of your soul to get anything as you got started.
So keep the way, and keep quiet.
To the astonishment of my hands, I never committed a single lame poem without putting them to blame.
Yes, I've always drunk just over-much but won't raise a toast once to the dizziness of my stomach.
I never offered my busy seat to the comfort of my tired hips, nor settled my lap to nestle upon my lap.
Nope, never really got used to having my sleep induced with the help of self-hypnotherapy.
Nor did I bother to take my hat off when saw me coming, but always came past me with hat on and hair needing combing.
I never pulled my bootlaces to raise myself above the ground, instead highly recommend lifts, angels, opiates, lunar parks.
It takes the whole of your soul to get anything as you got started.
So keep the way, and keep quiet.
BRAND NEW IDEAS FOR A BACK ISSUE
To my lung's disgrace I never took on smoking for my own lungs' sake.
To the astonishment of my hands, I never committed a single lame poem without putting them to blame.
Yes, I've always drunk just over-much but won't raise a toast once to the dizziness of my stomach.
I never offered my busy seat to the comfort of my tired hips, nor settled my lap to nestle upon my lap.
Nope, never really got used to having my sleep induced with the help of self-hypnotherapy.
Nor did I bother to take my hat off when saw me coming, but always came past me with hat on and hair needing combing.
I never pulled my bootlaces to raise myself above the ground, instead highly recommend lifts, angels, opiates, lunar parks.
It takes the whole of your soul to get anything as you got started.
So keep the way, and keep quiet.
To the astonishment of my hands, I never committed a single lame poem without putting them to blame.
Yes, I've always drunk just over-much but won't raise a toast once to the dizziness of my stomach.
I never offered my busy seat to the comfort of my tired hips, nor settled my lap to nestle upon my lap.
Nope, never really got used to having my sleep induced with the help of self-hypnotherapy.
Nor did I bother to take my hat off when saw me coming, but always came past me with hat on and hair needing combing.
I never pulled my bootlaces to raise myself above the ground, instead highly recommend lifts, angels, opiates, lunar parks.
It takes the whole of your soul to get anything as you got started.
So keep the way, and keep quiet.
THERE MUST BE A MOMENT
there must be a moment
before the age of restlessness
when you can still say I don’t want to
time to choose
to keep one’s own master
or to decide not to decide thereafter
the last turning area
to pick up the footprints and endure
before the mark when the road crumbles apart
a single moment: that of the suicide’s signature,
the concentration of the trapeze artist,
the dance in front of a penalty shot
every predicament can take on a remedy
before inertia ties from the outside
and the impossible gesture freezes in
a moment to collect the look and recall of you
forgetful already of that elusive moment
which has long gone ahead of you
as if it was only meant to remind
those who are strangely still alive
that love is eagerness not to be
before the age of restlessness
when you can still say I don’t want to
time to choose
to keep one’s own master
or to decide not to decide thereafter
the last turning area
to pick up the footprints and endure
before the mark when the road crumbles apart
a single moment: that of the suicide’s signature,
the concentration of the trapeze artist,
the dance in front of a penalty shot
every predicament can take on a remedy
before inertia ties from the outside
and the impossible gesture freezes in
a moment to collect the look and recall of you
forgetful already of that elusive moment
which has long gone ahead of you
as if it was only meant to remind
those who are strangely still alive
that love is eagerness not to be
GAME THEORY
1.
heads I win
tails you lose
2.
P.S.: Well, I know this is not
exactly good verse.
I think I could suppress more than a half.
I could in fact suppress
all of it, but, you see
the perfect poem is
the blank minimalist page,
so my point reads:
you can’t intend to contest
without keeping mistake
somewhere in.
heads I win
tails you lose
2.
P.S.: Well, I know this is not
exactly good verse.
I think I could suppress more than a half.
I could in fact suppress
all of it, but, you see
the perfect poem is
the blank minimalist page,
so my point reads:
you can’t intend to contest
without keeping mistake
somewhere in.
HOW TO CHEAT A DOOR
first thing
shake its hand
as if you greeted it
without a wink
push it
in a surprise launch
on lockstep with
its drawing back
press ahead
now, from the other side,
changing hands,
repeat above proceedings
except, this time,
after hearing a thud,
don’t budge
only treachery can do the trick:
the whining ring even stings
but won’t get it ajar
with your all too good manners
you are still
stuck apart
kicks, punches and bruises
all are
to no use
shake its hand
as if you greeted it
without a wink
push it
in a surprise launch
on lockstep with
its drawing back
press ahead
now, from the other side,
changing hands,
repeat above proceedings
except, this time,
after hearing a thud,
don’t budge
only treachery can do the trick:
the whining ring even stings
but won’t get it ajar
with your all too good manners
you are still
stuck apart
kicks, punches and bruises
all are
to no use
ALONE ON THE MOUNTAINS
All around my eyes, the Sun
kept on talking alone
with its thousand tongues.
I heard a singsong,
probably a hum from a bug or such,
but got bodily warned
in bitter disappointment
that it came from my own
blank stomach.
There was an ill
to be devised from the heights
on the feet of the hill.
They have welcomed the newly-arrived
with a dish of fish
and a plate of spinach.
Then I thought that if I once were a god,
first thing I would bend to my will
is that days would never go past us so fast.
But I myself needed my rest,
picked out a frayed couch and stood still
at last.
kept on talking alone
with its thousand tongues.
I heard a singsong,
probably a hum from a bug or such,
but got bodily warned
in bitter disappointment
that it came from my own
blank stomach.
There was an ill
to be devised from the heights
on the feet of the hill.
They have welcomed the newly-arrived
with a dish of fish
and a plate of spinach.
Then I thought that if I once were a god,
first thing I would bend to my will
is that days would never go past us so fast.
But I myself needed my rest,
picked out a frayed couch and stood still
at last.
ALARM CLOCK
what is hell other than repetition?
as a scenery, a room
plunged into its own depths:
a cat would stretch further
and display more darkness
behind the stingy eyes
trapped inside a single day,
I hear an alarm clock
that keeps on ticking,
no point in snoozing:
it would go off, if it could
and however
if there would never
be a morning after,
or if there never
could ever be
such a thing as ever
there would be elsewhere the haste in the cities
lifting the dust and the noise in the streets,
there would be at least a streak of light,
which would only slowly abandon my eyes,
as a nonchalant summer sunset,
or as only gradually vanishes
a word, a god, a habit
an incomplete body
would follow without the shadow
on the same ways I used
to trail us along
or else we may all be alive already
and only roam in the underworld
out of practice or for reminescence,
as a dog we had scared away
but sneaked back from the clearing of a dream
(though dreams usually don’t go around sniffing,
and the gate had been left properly locked)
but time, this strange variety of disregard
that scatters dirt among the corners,
deprives the books of their stiffness
and yellows the brown in the furniture,
erupts all of a sudden into the window and leaks
onto the sheet, and goes on to flooding
the sleeping room
soaked in sweat,
I hear the same old snore
from the alarm clock
and wake it up
instead
as a scenery, a room
plunged into its own depths:
a cat would stretch further
and display more darkness
behind the stingy eyes
trapped inside a single day,
I hear an alarm clock
that keeps on ticking,
no point in snoozing:
it would go off, if it could
and however
if there would never
be a morning after,
or if there never
could ever be
such a thing as ever
there would be elsewhere the haste in the cities
lifting the dust and the noise in the streets,
there would be at least a streak of light,
which would only slowly abandon my eyes,
as a nonchalant summer sunset,
or as only gradually vanishes
a word, a god, a habit
an incomplete body
would follow without the shadow
on the same ways I used
to trail us along
or else we may all be alive already
and only roam in the underworld
out of practice or for reminescence,
as a dog we had scared away
but sneaked back from the clearing of a dream
(though dreams usually don’t go around sniffing,
and the gate had been left properly locked)
but time, this strange variety of disregard
that scatters dirt among the corners,
deprives the books of their stiffness
and yellows the brown in the furniture,
erupts all of a sudden into the window and leaks
onto the sheet, and goes on to flooding
the sleeping room
soaked in sweat,
I hear the same old snore
from the alarm clock
and wake it up
instead
LA FETE DE TOUSSENS
vous avez retrouvé sur la rive droite
de la moitié gauche de ta soupe
quelques pièces d’un mystère sans-doutes
dans un appartement au ras-du-sommeil
vous qui aviez été souvent mépris,
et maintes fois cousu et surgelé,
vous pourrez goûter, alors, le dégoût
honnête de votre propre chair,
et renaître en dépit
du feu et de feu les cendres,
presque fleuri, presque
infini comme une arabesque
vous vous étiez déjà dévoré, dommage...
il vous reste assister maintenant
aux defilés menés en hommage
des tombés de la Toussens
de la moitié gauche de ta soupe
quelques pièces d’un mystère sans-doutes
dans un appartement au ras-du-sommeil
vous qui aviez été souvent mépris,
et maintes fois cousu et surgelé,
vous pourrez goûter, alors, le dégoût
honnête de votre propre chair,
et renaître en dépit
du feu et de feu les cendres,
presque fleuri, presque
infini comme une arabesque
vous vous étiez déjà dévoré, dommage...
il vous reste assister maintenant
aux defilés menés en hommage
des tombés de la Toussens
LESSONS ON ANNATOMY
I- FIRST LESSON
this we name your hair,
those your new pair of specs,
all in all the things you might
ever be constituted of:
buckles, buns and bunions
and the other sorts of things
that embrace or kiss them
II- DISSECTION
a for starters
n for navel in the middle of
n then another
a final restarting alpha
III- ANNA ON THE MIRROR
Anna annA
this we name your hair,
those your new pair of specs,
all in all the things you might
ever be constituted of:
buckles, buns and bunions
and the other sorts of things
that embrace or kiss them
II- DISSECTION
a for starters
n for navel in the middle of
n then another
a final restarting alpha
III- ANNA ON THE MIRROR
Anna annA
WHAT IS REALITY ALL ABOUT?
to Murray Bennett
I could as usually
reassure you
about all the super
well-known hypernatural
and übermaterial
too good reasons
why we had better keep real.
But today, I will duly
remind that sometimes we could
try and be blithely
a little more
blistfully listless
to our limits,
only just enough to check (for
surer grounds) on
all the other
overlooked and/or
long forgotten
possibilities.
I could as usually
reassure you
about all the super
well-known hypernatural
and übermaterial
too good reasons
why we had better keep real.
But today, I will duly
remind that sometimes we could
try and be blithely
a little more
blistfully listless
to our limits,
only just enough to check (for
surer grounds) on
all the other
overlooked and/or
long forgotten
possibilities.
BITTERSWEETNESS
We are
captive to Art,
Art with capital A,
how else could we experience
life without putting
our senses to say?
But Art comes with a high price:
Art may turn us into the fierce
armchair critics of life,
which is the greatest possible
form of wickedness:
to force our taste of the beautiful
onto raw and indefensible
bitter-sweetness.
captive to Art,
Art with capital A,
how else could we experience
life without putting
our senses to say?
But Art comes with a high price:
Art may turn us into the fierce
armchair critics of life,
which is the greatest possible
form of wickedness:
to force our taste of the beautiful
onto raw and indefensible
bitter-sweetness.
ZUSAMMENHANG
a Rafael Jordão
Einmal, wenn süße Liebe hatte mich gefunden,
Habe ich gedacht ich hätte sie selber erfunden.
Aber heute, du bist weg und ich bin geblieben,
Denn ich frage mich, wie kann man alleine weiterlieben?
Um sie zusammenzustellen, macht man's zu zweit,
Was noch meint: Liebe erfordet Abhängigkeit.
Einmal, wenn süße Liebe hatte mich gefunden,
Habe ich gedacht ich hätte sie selber erfunden.
Aber heute, du bist weg und ich bin geblieben,
Denn ich frage mich, wie kann man alleine weiterlieben?
Um sie zusammenzustellen, macht man's zu zweit,
Was noch meint: Liebe erfordet Abhängigkeit.
LOVE, LIKE WINE, DRIVE US HIGHER
Nothing else matters. Stand up.
Bring me wine.
(Omar Khayyam, apud Manuel Bandeira)
love
like wine
drive us higher
we trip on a winding straight line, dancing to no music,
till we throw up words of no footing, crying for every or no reason,
and each other we meet we call a brother, for all in all
we are not older and yet clumsier than a toddler
the silver moon face
no longer seduces our gaze,
the morning gives off a warm aroma
whose sweetness we simply can't perceive
we are all senses poured onto a sole glass,
which slowly dries off, or then is taken by someone else,
but the thirst that drives us only entices
our fondness for a further dose
we stop being like a limpid crystal,
repealing in the order of things,
to turn into mangled measure in the world,
joy and pain that entangle and go indistinguishable
like wine
love
drive us higher
Bring me wine.
(Omar Khayyam, apud Manuel Bandeira)
love
like wine
drive us higher
we trip on a winding straight line, dancing to no music,
till we throw up words of no footing, crying for every or no reason,
and each other we meet we call a brother, for all in all
we are not older and yet clumsier than a toddler
the silver moon face
no longer seduces our gaze,
the morning gives off a warm aroma
whose sweetness we simply can't perceive
we are all senses poured onto a sole glass,
which slowly dries off, or then is taken by someone else,
but the thirst that drives us only entices
our fondness for a further dose
we stop being like a limpid crystal,
repealing in the order of things,
to turn into mangled measure in the world,
joy and pain that entangle and go indistinguishable
like wine
love
drive us higher
ON MY WAY TO THEBES
On my way to Thebes
I was driven to an oracle
who guaranteed a total recall
of all the things of which
I had long lost control.
The seer sort reminded me
Of a good chunk of the life
I had had before being tossed
all about, then told I would go blind,
whom I should marry.
I said, don’t waste your time, my old
man, I am no goat,
just like everything else
you are just another voice
talking inside my head.
I was driven to an oracle
who guaranteed a total recall
of all the things of which
I had long lost control.
The seer sort reminded me
Of a good chunk of the life
I had had before being tossed
all about, then told I would go blind,
whom I should marry.
I said, don’t waste your time, my old
man, I am no goat,
just like everything else
you are just another voice
talking inside my head.
IF YOU ASK ME IF I AM AN AGNOSTIC
I ignore if we have a Lord.
All I suspect is that She made me free,
since She never stopped me from doing whatever I did.
And when I peer into the sky, it is only to check on the weather.
I guess that if it belonged to my powers
to ponder over Her existence,
She sure would be the first to touch or to seize me.
But it is air all what involves me and I know no other prison besides my body
(And yet, under slightly altered circumstances,
in some possible universe,
deprived of other guilty inquiring consciences,
I only wonder to whose use a God could serve).
All I suspect is that She made me free,
since She never stopped me from doing whatever I did.
And when I peer into the sky, it is only to check on the weather.
I guess that if it belonged to my powers
to ponder over Her existence,
She sure would be the first to touch or to seize me.
But it is air all what involves me and I know no other prison besides my body
(And yet, under slightly altered circumstances,
in some possible universe,
deprived of other guilty inquiring consciences,
I only wonder to whose use a God could serve).
LOS AMORES DE FACEBOOK
Él es argentino,
yo, paraybano,
nos conocimos en un boliche
em Buenos Ayres ya hace un año.
Desprendidas las luces,
al despedirnos quedamos
una semana en un atlantis cruise ™,
de Miami al Caribe.
Juntos estuvimos el primer día.
Pero nomás se le fueron acercando
los nativos y unos otros tantos,
enseguida se puso mi noviecito
a perderse por el camino
a volver a bailar conmigo.
Yo no hablo nada inglés,
ni de mi parte causé
ilusión en los americanos.
Así, al final pasé las vacaciones
com más soledad y desengaño
que un maestro yogi.
Los amores de verano, escuchen,
lo rápido es lo que los hace dulces:
no llevan más que la temporada,
aunque cuesten a veces caras
llamadas internacionales,
como a veces deshacen
unas almas desesperadas
de nostalgia y de quebranto.
Ya los amores de facebook,
ya prevengo que los rehúsen,
pues no hay de los que duren
más que una ida al baño.
yo, paraybano,
nos conocimos en un boliche
em Buenos Ayres ya hace un año.
Desprendidas las luces,
al despedirnos quedamos
una semana en un atlantis cruise ™,
de Miami al Caribe.
Juntos estuvimos el primer día.
Pero nomás se le fueron acercando
los nativos y unos otros tantos,
enseguida se puso mi noviecito
a perderse por el camino
a volver a bailar conmigo.
Yo no hablo nada inglés,
ni de mi parte causé
ilusión en los americanos.
Así, al final pasé las vacaciones
com más soledad y desengaño
que un maestro yogi.
Los amores de verano, escuchen,
lo rápido es lo que los hace dulces:
no llevan más que la temporada,
aunque cuesten a veces caras
llamadas internacionales,
como a veces deshacen
unas almas desesperadas
de nostalgia y de quebranto.
Ya los amores de facebook,
ya prevengo que los rehúsen,
pues no hay de los que duren
más que una ida al baño.
LOS AMORES DE FACEBOOK
Él es argentino,
yo, curitibano,
nos conocimos en un boliche
de Buenos Ayres ya hace un año.
Desprendidas las luces,
al despedirnos quedamos
una semana en un atlantis cruise ™,
de Miami al Caribe.
Juntos estuvimos el primer día.
Pero nomás se le fueron acercando
los nativos y unos otros tantos.
Luego se puso mi noviecito
a perderse por el camino
a volver a bailar conmigo.
Yo no hablo nada inglés,
ni de mi parte causé
ilusión en los americanos.
Así, pasé las vacaciones
com más soledad y desengaño
que un maestro yogi.
Los amores de verano, escuchen,
lo rápido es lo que los hace dulces:
no llevan más que la temporada,
aunque cuestan a veces caras
llamadas internacionales,
o que muchas veces hacen
polvo unas almas desesperadas,
corroídas de nostalgia y quebranto.
Ya los amores de facebook,
les prevengo que los rehúsen,
pues no hay de los que duren
más que una ida al baño.
yo, curitibano,
nos conocimos en un boliche
de Buenos Ayres ya hace un año.
Desprendidas las luces,
al despedirnos quedamos
una semana en un atlantis cruise ™,
de Miami al Caribe.
Juntos estuvimos el primer día.
Pero nomás se le fueron acercando
los nativos y unos otros tantos.
Luego se puso mi noviecito
a perderse por el camino
a volver a bailar conmigo.
Yo no hablo nada inglés,
ni de mi parte causé
ilusión en los americanos.
Así, pasé las vacaciones
com más soledad y desengaño
que un maestro yogi.
Los amores de verano, escuchen,
lo rápido es lo que los hace dulces:
no llevan más que la temporada,
aunque cuestan a veces caras
llamadas internacionales,
o que muchas veces hacen
polvo unas almas desesperadas,
corroídas de nostalgia y quebranto.
Ya los amores de facebook,
les prevengo que los rehúsen,
pues no hay de los que duren
más que una ida al baño.
LA FISICA DELL'ARIA
il respiro
insegna
che non esistono
luoghi composti
di dentro e fuori
nei polmoni il fiatone
non ci entra
e sale, come pare:
il fiato infatti
ci fa restare
insegna
che non esistono
luoghi composti
di dentro e fuori
nei polmoni il fiatone
non ci entra
e sale, come pare:
il fiato infatti
ci fa restare
I WISHED I WERE A SUNDAY
I wished I were a rainbow,
in which light, inattentive,
bursts into laughter,
and all the colors
meet and greet
each other
I wished I were a chunk of bread
fought over
by the blameless gluttony
of public doves
I wished I were
dear and inexpensive as the moon
that switches on along the streets
a huge lamp, pouring over the roofs
the same silver drizzle
disseminating haze and
indistinguishability
I wished I were like a peace
shy and faint, hidden behind the things
we haven’t met as yet,
a toddling hope
wobbling towards the truth with which
we still can’t cope
I wished I were as little as the instant
that travels so minutely
we can never ever pinch it
and often goes
hand in hand
I wished I were like the hour
that builds up patiently
as steps in time’s tower
and never looks back
but won’t ever reach
the fences of eternity
I wished I were an alchemist master
that in his crop of words
in a book recess of an old shelf
would come across with
the recipe for serendipity
I wished I were a dawn
that summons with a cock’s crow
the morning-lightener
I wished I were a summer,
a wandering ragged bum
in courtyards
outflooded with sun
I wished I were like those beggars
that head for no direction,
as listless to all else as a Sunday
( for Sundays have
light feet like the water
and the sea to their right)
I wished I were a Sunday
in which light, inattentive,
bursts into laughter,
and all the colors
meet and greet
each other
I wished I were a chunk of bread
fought over
by the blameless gluttony
of public doves
I wished I were
dear and inexpensive as the moon
that switches on along the streets
a huge lamp, pouring over the roofs
the same silver drizzle
disseminating haze and
indistinguishability
I wished I were like a peace
shy and faint, hidden behind the things
we haven’t met as yet,
a toddling hope
wobbling towards the truth with which
we still can’t cope
I wished I were as little as the instant
that travels so minutely
we can never ever pinch it
and often goes
hand in hand
I wished I were like the hour
that builds up patiently
as steps in time’s tower
and never looks back
but won’t ever reach
the fences of eternity
I wished I were an alchemist master
that in his crop of words
in a book recess of an old shelf
would come across with
the recipe for serendipity
I wished I were a dawn
that summons with a cock’s crow
the morning-lightener
I wished I were a summer,
a wandering ragged bum
in courtyards
outflooded with sun
I wished I were like those beggars
that head for no direction,
as listless to all else as a Sunday
( for Sundays have
light feet like the water
and the sea to their right)
I wished I were a Sunday
THE SECOND DEATH
He came on a day as plain as any other.
When I saw him, he dragged the most rotten rags.
He was bittersweet for my taste and too meek to our daze.
If I strolled on my own, his steps also stamped on my road.
If I slept, and the world abandoned me in forgetfulness,
he would keep up wide awake to my dreaming.
I couldn’t tell what his silences hushed to me,
what his gesture added to mine,
as a glass to the water.
I didn’t know who he was,
though I had long waited for him.
Gradually, he conferred voices to all things,
and gave to the ways more than determination – straying.
Now I realize in all experience
reasons that overfeed on the lush of my senses.
I know there are under the sun things
we became so acquainted with
that we will never manage to explain.
A thudding of fast feet ran through the fields.
I raced unbridled to escort the newcomers.
A body tilted from a breathless horse:
it was the messenger, I would hear me from other lips.
I lifted his hood and found no face;
I felt his wrist and he was deceased.
I ripped the ground, in despair I pulled the hair of the earth.
It was him, the eternal embodied in human flush,
the delegate sent only too late.
And now none could be saved.
I reckoned: there are no reasons to this world.
Or rather, there are just plenty.
But one thing is to learn them.
The worse, the terrible is,
getting them learned,
be able to have them lived.
My groaning and weeping softened the harsh in the rocks.
Eventually I came back where I was.
I don’t know his current whereabouts,
I guessed he must have found another garden,
where by sunset the salt in the earth sets afire.
I believe so far I could recognize him,
if he happened to arrive.
But those are tales I tell for myself,
when the night is ripe and I can´t
get to grips with my rest.
Now I must go the same roads,
and tread on my feet the same old void of the world,
without considering where I am carried along,
amidst the cities’ whirlwind and the men’s maze.
And pretend serenity when the shades bleed,
as though the day didn’t hallucinate
and the stones didn’t scream.
On that massage depended where the way was headed for.
It got lost for good, and the path to travel,
empty of exits or destinations, can never finish.
I wished I had never seen him.
I don’t think a second coarpse could repeat it for me.
When I saw him, he dragged the most rotten rags.
He was bittersweet for my taste and too meek to our daze.
If I strolled on my own, his steps also stamped on my road.
If I slept, and the world abandoned me in forgetfulness,
he would keep up wide awake to my dreaming.
I couldn’t tell what his silences hushed to me,
what his gesture added to mine,
as a glass to the water.
I didn’t know who he was,
though I had long waited for him.
Gradually, he conferred voices to all things,
and gave to the ways more than determination – straying.
Now I realize in all experience
reasons that overfeed on the lush of my senses.
I know there are under the sun things
we became so acquainted with
that we will never manage to explain.
A thudding of fast feet ran through the fields.
I raced unbridled to escort the newcomers.
A body tilted from a breathless horse:
it was the messenger, I would hear me from other lips.
I lifted his hood and found no face;
I felt his wrist and he was deceased.
I ripped the ground, in despair I pulled the hair of the earth.
It was him, the eternal embodied in human flush,
the delegate sent only too late.
And now none could be saved.
I reckoned: there are no reasons to this world.
Or rather, there are just plenty.
But one thing is to learn them.
The worse, the terrible is,
getting them learned,
be able to have them lived.
My groaning and weeping softened the harsh in the rocks.
Eventually I came back where I was.
I don’t know his current whereabouts,
I guessed he must have found another garden,
where by sunset the salt in the earth sets afire.
I believe so far I could recognize him,
if he happened to arrive.
But those are tales I tell for myself,
when the night is ripe and I can´t
get to grips with my rest.
Now I must go the same roads,
and tread on my feet the same old void of the world,
without considering where I am carried along,
amidst the cities’ whirlwind and the men’s maze.
And pretend serenity when the shades bleed,
as though the day didn’t hallucinate
and the stones didn’t scream.
On that massage depended where the way was headed for.
It got lost for good, and the path to travel,
empty of exits or destinations, can never finish.
I wished I had never seen him.
I don’t think a second coarpse could repeat it for me.
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