That window roasted spinning chicken
at which we stare with watery mouths,
my dog and me, must think of itself
as being freer as compared with
his peer specimens. I guess it surely
considers it noble to fly orderly
in the usual anticlockwise direction,
spared from the wind’s whim
and the migratory lure of nurture.
So they say I could only benefit from revamped liberty,
if only I opted for a style of living which provided me
with wider informed choice and selection.
Gibberish: the most relevant resolutions come ready-made,
I am not the author of whatever I amount to be,
nor is anybody I know or ever heard of.
I could have been born a workaholic,
becoming good for even more nothing,
without none having ever experienced the urge to decide
when or how well I should kill my time.
But I am the first to grant myself all the trite curious
petty treats to whose election one is entitled
and I am the very first to defend them against
your naturally too good concerned intrusion.
For instance, I would never change my prerogative
to sleep each night anywhere I feel like
for the fade discretion to pick out once in a year,
having coffee with Joe, the dealer,
a brand new car to drive
(as though I had no feet of my own,
able to drive me when I don't feel tired
in order to wish I also got tyres...).
Similarly, why should I resign
to waking up and choosing among some pieces
the cloths I will put on,
when I am able to gather from the freshest washing-line
all those I want,
and have them dry on the warmth of my body
while I run for my soul
from a raging former owner?
Liberties, as truths
don’t hang on peacefully together.
Then why ought I to get married and grow kids,
allowing all that people to besiege me
with the sharp claws of their wills?
They say a guy's freedom concludes
as soon as someone else's starts.
I claim that a guy's freedom bids its leave
as immediately as the other guy's too.
But I understand there is indeed
a deeper sense with regard to
a man can be told his own master:
it is when not even our own company meddles in,
and we can move about all by ourselves,
released from the tyranny of our likings
and from the very necessity of having likings,
watching as perfect strangers
each gesture clinching by their own initiative
onto the barren bareness of our fingertips.
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
IN THE BLACKBERRY SEASON
Every morning, as soon as the sun shakes me,
I up and go, gathering each flower I encounter
on the paths all along I loaf.
Sometimes, I found them in such plenties,
they don’t fit in my hands as fingers
or like sweat flowing under my arms.
It is so when I bump into a cherry tree
which has had an early blossom.
I just can’t refrain from scaling
its harsh trunk, full of bumps
as any road anywhere I've roamed.
And, taking hold of one branch with the legs,
I straighten up and it is as though I began to ride,
one grip pulling the silky mane,
the other palm sheltering my sight
from the early promise of light.
It’s good to see things from a height
– my eyes glide over the electric poles,
the split between the buildings and the commuters' traffic
as a fleet of pigeons. But even more enjoyable
is to sense my weight warping downwards,
my body slowly dismounting
until we land on earth just safe and sound.
For the trees are even more beautiful
when you see them from the ground.
So I resume my journey, now assembling
the fruits that seduce me
from the fences on a lane.
Sometimes the harvest is so handsome,
I cannot store it only in the eyes,
and have to swallow a heavy share.
It is so in the blackberry season,
when, after a rich feast, I opt for a rest,
burying my belly beneath the terrain,
as loaded as a bulgy basket.
It is delicious to realise that something has returned
the element’s stubbornness and the summer’s stolen fire
in the species of such sweet juice.
Even more so is to feel all along my flesh
trickling down the lymph perfume,
filling me up till I’m like a plump berry
fallen off the branch just because so ripe,
only anticipating the time when shall arrive
the oncoming pomegranate era.
And so I go on crossing the mornings,
now amassing the shadows
the leaves drip on the autumn-fields.
Sometimes they are so numerous that a mattress of leaves
muffles the voice of my footprints
– the trees meditate sleepwalkingly,
better not to disturb their well-earned sleep.
Then I lie myself down for a nap
as a leaf over older leaf layers.
But after a brief relief, my fool-bells wake me up,
rung by all the things I met in my travelings,
which still surround and hug me as the moss
that affectionately envolves the tree that matures,
and warn me that I will never be material
for becoming anything without a company.
It mortifies me to know there are so many
who mock of my shadows cropping.
As though it made no difference if the leaves flew away,
since they are so many of them and would lose hold anyway.
They still can’t see the sodden simile.
For we are ourselves like those leaves
that clutch at the trunk tenaciously,
although we already know all attachment and pain
are just vain, later or sooner or in-between,
the seasons’ spin will swirl us in its wind,
and all we will manage to carry around
is the very dust which clung onto the skin
we now dress out.
And then I follow on the same story
always and always gathering
new mornings.
I up and go, gathering each flower I encounter
on the paths all along I loaf.
Sometimes, I found them in such plenties,
they don’t fit in my hands as fingers
or like sweat flowing under my arms.
It is so when I bump into a cherry tree
which has had an early blossom.
I just can’t refrain from scaling
its harsh trunk, full of bumps
as any road anywhere I've roamed.
And, taking hold of one branch with the legs,
I straighten up and it is as though I began to ride,
one grip pulling the silky mane,
the other palm sheltering my sight
from the early promise of light.
It’s good to see things from a height
– my eyes glide over the electric poles,
the split between the buildings and the commuters' traffic
as a fleet of pigeons. But even more enjoyable
is to sense my weight warping downwards,
my body slowly dismounting
until we land on earth just safe and sound.
For the trees are even more beautiful
when you see them from the ground.
So I resume my journey, now assembling
the fruits that seduce me
from the fences on a lane.
Sometimes the harvest is so handsome,
I cannot store it only in the eyes,
and have to swallow a heavy share.
It is so in the blackberry season,
when, after a rich feast, I opt for a rest,
burying my belly beneath the terrain,
as loaded as a bulgy basket.
It is delicious to realise that something has returned
the element’s stubbornness and the summer’s stolen fire
in the species of such sweet juice.
Even more so is to feel all along my flesh
trickling down the lymph perfume,
filling me up till I’m like a plump berry
fallen off the branch just because so ripe,
only anticipating the time when shall arrive
the oncoming pomegranate era.
And so I go on crossing the mornings,
now amassing the shadows
the leaves drip on the autumn-fields.
Sometimes they are so numerous that a mattress of leaves
muffles the voice of my footprints
– the trees meditate sleepwalkingly,
better not to disturb their well-earned sleep.
Then I lie myself down for a nap
as a leaf over older leaf layers.
But after a brief relief, my fool-bells wake me up,
rung by all the things I met in my travelings,
which still surround and hug me as the moss
that affectionately envolves the tree that matures,
and warn me that I will never be material
for becoming anything without a company.
It mortifies me to know there are so many
who mock of my shadows cropping.
As though it made no difference if the leaves flew away,
since they are so many of them and would lose hold anyway.
They still can’t see the sodden simile.
For we are ourselves like those leaves
that clutch at the trunk tenaciously,
although we already know all attachment and pain
are just vain, later or sooner or in-between,
the seasons’ spin will swirl us in its wind,
and all we will manage to carry around
is the very dust which clung onto the skin
we now dress out.
And then I follow on the same story
always and always gathering
new mornings.
SELF-PORTRAIT BY HALF-LIGHT
the evening dims on me,
and stones
bend the way
everything that exists
lie only
outside of us
I am a road
someone else roams
to no purpose
and all else lies inside us,
we only
no longer
and stones
bend the way
everything that exists
lie only
outside of us
I am a road
someone else roams
to no purpose
and all else lies inside us,
we only
no longer
FOR ELIZA
ô toi que j’eusse aimeé, ô toi qui le savais!
(Baudelaire)
I know when you will on walk past me:
it’s sometime right after I’m warned
by the birds’ chatter, or briefly before
all sunbeams gather in a single dusty whisp,
then the glare is so strident that I simply
can’t go on sleeping.
I stand up.
My hands clean up
my ungainly rags.
You’d say I try to look my lousy best
and run to the square
where Eliza is about to pass.
I kind of love you, Eliza, though you don’t
know of me, and though I don’t
know who you are or how many.
There are so many voices and faces
wrangling and tangling in you,
that it is impossible to wield unity in it.
All I know of is that you come by rigorously
at eight and forty seven, and your name
I sort of overheard from the cafeteria waitress.
I reach you while you parade with your twisted leg,
my own copycats, raising those squinting eyes
in your medusa head, which can drive one mad.
And the buildings crane forward their petrified necks,
and windows jostle and take turns to watch you stride,
while you smoothly glide even more high-heeled
than the statue dressed in moss and patina,
which from its heights
examines the passer-by's.
I learned you work as an assistant
at the pawnshop, and since then
I’ve been living on the shadows you drop.
I can distinguish in the pitch of your breath
if you are upbeat or if the day
has burned earlier into ashes.
I can predict your humours because they flow
all along all what surrounds us, thus, if you smile,
the morning also leaps aflame, but if you whine,
the taps hush just not to compete with your crying,
and the colours all of a sudden go all shy and bleached
as though hidden behind a thick drizzly mist.
I follow you up every and each morning
for seventy-odd steps, no matter if you stumble on a pebble
or stop up in a fit of coughing. And I go on in pursuit
of your scent of ironed linen, whereas in your forehead
a crease goes on increasing,
splitting you in two:
the one who you were once,
and the one you can hardly notice.
But I adore you even so, single or multiple,
in your transit
or project
of an unknown earthly object.
But you never perceive me, Elisa,
and don’t have a clue as to what you lose
or whether there is nothing to lose...
Save that one day when you perceived on your way
my feet stamping your shade.
Then, as you turned your face
(having thought of running away,
but refraining,
having considered uttering a word,
were it not for the timid temper),
Eliza listlessly
smiled at me.
(Baudelaire)
I know when you will on walk past me:
it’s sometime right after I’m warned
by the birds’ chatter, or briefly before
all sunbeams gather in a single dusty whisp,
then the glare is so strident that I simply
can’t go on sleeping.
I stand up.
My hands clean up
my ungainly rags.
You’d say I try to look my lousy best
and run to the square
where Eliza is about to pass.
I kind of love you, Eliza, though you don’t
know of me, and though I don’t
know who you are or how many.
There are so many voices and faces
wrangling and tangling in you,
that it is impossible to wield unity in it.
All I know of is that you come by rigorously
at eight and forty seven, and your name
I sort of overheard from the cafeteria waitress.
I reach you while you parade with your twisted leg,
my own copycats, raising those squinting eyes
in your medusa head, which can drive one mad.
And the buildings crane forward their petrified necks,
and windows jostle and take turns to watch you stride,
while you smoothly glide even more high-heeled
than the statue dressed in moss and patina,
which from its heights
examines the passer-by's.
I learned you work as an assistant
at the pawnshop, and since then
I’ve been living on the shadows you drop.
I can distinguish in the pitch of your breath
if you are upbeat or if the day
has burned earlier into ashes.
I can predict your humours because they flow
all along all what surrounds us, thus, if you smile,
the morning also leaps aflame, but if you whine,
the taps hush just not to compete with your crying,
and the colours all of a sudden go all shy and bleached
as though hidden behind a thick drizzly mist.
I follow you up every and each morning
for seventy-odd steps, no matter if you stumble on a pebble
or stop up in a fit of coughing. And I go on in pursuit
of your scent of ironed linen, whereas in your forehead
a crease goes on increasing,
splitting you in two:
the one who you were once,
and the one you can hardly notice.
But I adore you even so, single or multiple,
in your transit
or project
of an unknown earthly object.
But you never perceive me, Elisa,
and don’t have a clue as to what you lose
or whether there is nothing to lose...
Save that one day when you perceived on your way
my feet stamping your shade.
Then, as you turned your face
(having thought of running away,
but refraining,
having considered uttering a word,
were it not for the timid temper),
Eliza listlessly
smiled at me.
SLEEPWALKING
sleep
sometimes grips me
at the least suited hours
I was standing, and self-closing lids
seduced me all of a sudden
into a numb slumber
night has hidden itself on the false underside of dreams
on which memories get fixed
(my repressed thinkings taking a glimpse)
I wage a race with my shadow
and lose it, my body gradually detaches
in a narrow escape line goes out of sight
I fling my eyes without a wink
the sun the sky the sea
it’s me it’s me it’s me
as my image in a glass
I can only talk
about myselves
and all communication is impossible
the world outside us
well things are just not there
then I try my hard luck
and second-guess a password
beyond the doors of self-deception
it goes amiss, no panic,
there ought to be just plenty of
new false starts from which
to blunder around, never bother,
I have long been daydreaming about
some early dreamwalking
sometimes grips me
at the least suited hours
I was standing, and self-closing lids
seduced me all of a sudden
into a numb slumber
night has hidden itself on the false underside of dreams
on which memories get fixed
(my repressed thinkings taking a glimpse)
I wage a race with my shadow
and lose it, my body gradually detaches
in a narrow escape line goes out of sight
I fling my eyes without a wink
the sun the sky the sea
it’s me it’s me it’s me
as my image in a glass
I can only talk
about myselves
and all communication is impossible
the world outside us
well things are just not there
then I try my hard luck
and second-guess a password
beyond the doors of self-deception
it goes amiss, no panic,
there ought to be just plenty of
new false starts from which
to blunder around, never bother,
I have long been daydreaming about
some early dreamwalking
TODAY I DON'T LIE THAT WELL
today I don’t lie that well...
when the guard on the rounds asked if
I go on sleeping on the bench in front
of the florists’ stand, then, without the wit
to make up an alibi, I confessed that I
don’t, instead became lately rather fond
of the shadow from the man in bronze,
exactly on the spot in which, in half-sleep,
a couple of hours later on, the same idiot
scolds me off
today I don’t lie that well...
when the guard on the rounds asked if
I go on sleeping on the bench in front
of the florists’ stand, then, without the wit
to make up an alibi, I confessed that I
don’t, instead became lately rather fond
of the shadow from the man in bronze,
exactly on the spot in which, in half-sleep,
a couple of hours later on, the same idiot
scolds me off
today I don’t lie that well...
THE BEGGAR JESUS
Since they'd offered me something to drink,
I settled down on the kitchen porch,
between the cardboard boxes and the boys’ brawling,
as he stretched in the hand a sweaty glass of water.
Then I saw (if one can see among believers)
that my hands were bare and I had myself
nothing with which to pay them back,
except, maybe, with a sun (like this)
sparkling behind clouds.
I settled down on the kitchen porch,
between the cardboard boxes and the boys’ brawling,
as he stretched in the hand a sweaty glass of water.
Then I saw (if one can see among believers)
that my hands were bare and I had myself
nothing with which to pay them back,
except, maybe, with a sun (like this)
sparkling behind clouds.
A THEORY OF IDENTITY
Je est un autre
(Rimbaud)
1.
for what use language puts us into use?
what see things that see their selves through my eyes?
most mornings, when I gaze in the glass
it is a fortune I can notice my own features
in the mirror my face faces me as a sphinx,
and since I can’t escape my own maze,
its mouth full of void
swallows up my voice
I presume we must all be but rivers of Is and yous,
whirlpools that revolve around no nucleus,
shadows that can’t be fed and feed the hunger,
friends that won’t be met and can only wonder
2.
my name is throng and I talk in all the tongues,
I walk in each and every feet and squeeze
in my thousand hands the hands of all that greet me
by my own name, for my name is every man’s,
and I see even through the eyes of those
who go past pretending not to see us both
I never follow without a company,
and when I say what I fail to get over,
my friend stands for me,
and when I ache my aches and pains
my brother offers to my proud or shame
a sheltering shoulder.
Then I feel like melting our communicant souls together,
but soon realise I cannot help carrying on by my own,
and each day I use I feel smaller than one day ago,
for I can’t attain what dwells out of the grips
of a greedy but limited memory, and so am unable to reach
for whatever lies beyond the brinks of one single body
And thus each person amounts to
no more than one closed book
3.
on occasions I feel utterly bewildered at
the unfailing richness of this universe,
wishing I could only deserve
all of the gold squandered at dawn and
all of the copper to be robbed from dusk
I almost forget that my eyes never guard much of them,
that I've already seen so many, but even if I strained my best,
I couldn't possibly shake them with my hands from their rest
and might as well remain trapped inside my own inside,
like a reflex stuck in the looking-glass
for I am no matter what I am told
my own bored prisoner of a body
which controls me like an automaton.
one day, if Death comes,
it won’t ignore what it came for:
Death shall extinguish
just my flesh - and, in the end of the day,
who knows if I can only be found
there
where I will never be met
(Rimbaud)
1.
for what use language puts us into use?
what see things that see their selves through my eyes?
most mornings, when I gaze in the glass
it is a fortune I can notice my own features
in the mirror my face faces me as a sphinx,
and since I can’t escape my own maze,
its mouth full of void
swallows up my voice
I presume we must all be but rivers of Is and yous,
whirlpools that revolve around no nucleus,
shadows that can’t be fed and feed the hunger,
friends that won’t be met and can only wonder
2.
my name is throng and I talk in all the tongues,
I walk in each and every feet and squeeze
in my thousand hands the hands of all that greet me
by my own name, for my name is every man’s,
and I see even through the eyes of those
who go past pretending not to see us both
I never follow without a company,
and when I say what I fail to get over,
my friend stands for me,
and when I ache my aches and pains
my brother offers to my proud or shame
a sheltering shoulder.
Then I feel like melting our communicant souls together,
but soon realise I cannot help carrying on by my own,
and each day I use I feel smaller than one day ago,
for I can’t attain what dwells out of the grips
of a greedy but limited memory, and so am unable to reach
for whatever lies beyond the brinks of one single body
And thus each person amounts to
no more than one closed book
3.
on occasions I feel utterly bewildered at
the unfailing richness of this universe,
wishing I could only deserve
all of the gold squandered at dawn and
all of the copper to be robbed from dusk
I almost forget that my eyes never guard much of them,
that I've already seen so many, but even if I strained my best,
I couldn't possibly shake them with my hands from their rest
and might as well remain trapped inside my own inside,
like a reflex stuck in the looking-glass
for I am no matter what I am told
my own bored prisoner of a body
which controls me like an automaton.
one day, if Death comes,
it won’t ignore what it came for:
Death shall extinguish
just my flesh - and, in the end of the day,
who knows if I can only be found
there
where I will never be met
A VISIT TO THE CHURCH
But superstition, like belief, must die.
And what remains when disbelief has gone?
(Philip Larkin)
There must be no sadder creatures in all innumerable creation
than those church figures of saints.
The niche they dwell is also a sort of cell,
and if they could I suppose they would fly back home,
bound for the high sky in the dome,
for which their eyes long without ever reaching.
They ignore that, much beyond it,
another Sky, sometimes all blue too,
nestles birds whose singing clings less faded and manageable
than the one from those hand-painted on the frescos.
Six on the hour, the believers jostle
in search of God before the altar.
I find it weird that they call this place the house of God.
As if He wouldn’t feel more comfortable in distinct whereabouts:
sleeping on a doorstep with other street boys
or playing dice behind closed doors.
It’s no bad thing that they look for Him where they please,
it’s only as though they had taken the wrong car
and rode much beyond the stopping point
at which they shouldn’t have gotten off from the start.
There must be no sadder creature in all creation
than this church God.
He owes forgiveness to everybody,
but will never feel the glory
to deserve someone’s apology.
He has no history,
nor can he yearn for perfection,
because He has already got it.
He can’t feel love as an unremitting passion,
beyond good and evil.
There is death in the world and God lands on the Earth
in the hope of gathering one pure soul.
Poor devil! Goodness has nothing to do with
our willingness to be virtuous.
I don’t know a sole creature,
in full possession of his faculties,
who doesn’t consider himself a man of principle.
Goodness outruns our perceptive senses.
We are like those wooden saints,
which ignore the boundaries of their own transcendence.
And what remains when disbelief has gone?
(Philip Larkin)
There must be no sadder creatures in all innumerable creation
than those church figures of saints.
The niche they dwell is also a sort of cell,
and if they could I suppose they would fly back home,
bound for the high sky in the dome,
for which their eyes long without ever reaching.
They ignore that, much beyond it,
another Sky, sometimes all blue too,
nestles birds whose singing clings less faded and manageable
than the one from those hand-painted on the frescos.
Six on the hour, the believers jostle
in search of God before the altar.
I find it weird that they call this place the house of God.
As if He wouldn’t feel more comfortable in distinct whereabouts:
sleeping on a doorstep with other street boys
or playing dice behind closed doors.
It’s no bad thing that they look for Him where they please,
it’s only as though they had taken the wrong car
and rode much beyond the stopping point
at which they shouldn’t have gotten off from the start.
There must be no sadder creature in all creation
than this church God.
He owes forgiveness to everybody,
but will never feel the glory
to deserve someone’s apology.
He has no history,
nor can he yearn for perfection,
because He has already got it.
He can’t feel love as an unremitting passion,
beyond good and evil.
There is death in the world and God lands on the Earth
in the hope of gathering one pure soul.
Poor devil! Goodness has nothing to do with
our willingness to be virtuous.
I don’t know a sole creature,
in full possession of his faculties,
who doesn’t consider himself a man of principle.
Goodness outruns our perceptive senses.
We are like those wooden saints,
which ignore the boundaries of their own transcendence.
THE PLUNDER STOLEN FROM TIME
Vejo o outono caindo.
(Paulo Mendes Campos)
I was tired and sleeping on my lazy bed,
imagining that all the work was finished.
As I woke up in the morning I found
my garden swarming with flowers....
(Rabinadrath Tagore, apud Ivo Storniolo)
when a sly spring
sneaking from a window slit
come to load me with unbidden flowers,
and I, taking pains to carry them,
mistaking my new burden
for the lot of former nuisances,
stop and spy inside of me
only to notice that melancholy,
who had been my prisoner,
my captive broke off the
intricate maze of my ways
and flew away for never to be traced
then I will dare be proud of having loved this world
which never gave me anything I could show around,
I will feel happy for having squandered my days
celebrating it with the ragged lyre of my words,
and my heart will roll as the drum-works
of my triumph naked of prizes
I will finally be ripe
for picking up the fruits that grew
from the blossom of a bleak season,
those whose seeds I was told
wouldn’t unfold: that is the plunder I stole,
my crop out of time
but I will not keep anything for me,
I, who did not earn or deserve them,
but shall give them all to the ones
who wasted those of their own,
and by so doing, had them returned
to the hunger of the earth
(Paulo Mendes Campos)
I was tired and sleeping on my lazy bed,
imagining that all the work was finished.
As I woke up in the morning I found
my garden swarming with flowers....
(Rabinadrath Tagore, apud Ivo Storniolo)
when a sly spring
sneaking from a window slit
come to load me with unbidden flowers,
and I, taking pains to carry them,
mistaking my new burden
for the lot of former nuisances,
stop and spy inside of me
only to notice that melancholy,
who had been my prisoner,
my captive broke off the
intricate maze of my ways
and flew away for never to be traced
then I will dare be proud of having loved this world
which never gave me anything I could show around,
I will feel happy for having squandered my days
celebrating it with the ragged lyre of my words,
and my heart will roll as the drum-works
of my triumph naked of prizes
I will finally be ripe
for picking up the fruits that grew
from the blossom of a bleak season,
those whose seeds I was told
wouldn’t unfold: that is the plunder I stole,
my crop out of time
but I will not keep anything for me,
I, who did not earn or deserve them,
but shall give them all to the ones
who wasted those of their own,
and by so doing, had them returned
to the hunger of the earth
THE CALLING
O taumelbunte Welt,
Wie machst du satt,
Wie machst du satt und müd,
Wie machst du drunken!
(Hermann Hesse)
The others headed for the market
or enjoyed themselves
with the taste of public debating.
I didn’t, for my sole pleasure
was to hang around these solitary paths,
mixing the dark pebbles to the rattling
of my old rags, listening to the leaves
whispering the will-o’-the-wisp
of my useless music.
At times I boast about having flirted
more than anybody else the flowers in this garden.
Nobody could have picked up as alert
the scent of these fruits.
No other lips drank with sharpest thirst
the chatter of those birds.
None was able to follow as closely the day
as a child with whom you go hand in hand
and try hard not to lose of sight.
Now that the afternoon declines and colours
slowly retire, now that exhaustion,
more than the darkness, numbs my pace,
I can hear from the distance the call from home.
I am a loner, but there is no fear, and I would refrain only
if I had not finished my workings.
However, laden with all I found on my journey,
I take my leave, and the garden still blossoms.
Night has fallen, but where I go the day also follows.
Wie machst du satt,
Wie machst du satt und müd,
Wie machst du drunken!
(Hermann Hesse)
The others headed for the market
or enjoyed themselves
with the taste of public debating.
I didn’t, for my sole pleasure
was to hang around these solitary paths,
mixing the dark pebbles to the rattling
of my old rags, listening to the leaves
whispering the will-o’-the-wisp
of my useless music.
At times I boast about having flirted
more than anybody else the flowers in this garden.
Nobody could have picked up as alert
the scent of these fruits.
No other lips drank with sharpest thirst
the chatter of those birds.
None was able to follow as closely the day
as a child with whom you go hand in hand
and try hard not to lose of sight.
Now that the afternoon declines and colours
slowly retire, now that exhaustion,
more than the darkness, numbs my pace,
I can hear from the distance the call from home.
I am a loner, but there is no fear, and I would refrain only
if I had not finished my workings.
However, laden with all I found on my journey,
I take my leave, and the garden still blossoms.
Night has fallen, but where I go the day also follows.
THE NAME OF THE GAME
God, I know I am your favorite toy.
The one you hide from yourself,
so that, if by play or by chance you find it again,
you can bathe it all
with the gold of your smile.
But, if one day I grow tired
of praying to ears that appear to be
indifferent to getting this twisted world fixed,
and I start ignoring you like a broken doll
which cannot either speak or listen,
I guess you will take me out with your beaming fingers
from the shadow where I quietly lingered.
And then the oldest brat
will whisper in my ears his secret:
he will prevent me from telling his parents but
the whole world once belonged to him
and yet he has changed it for the treat
of one single poem.
The one you hide from yourself,
so that, if by play or by chance you find it again,
you can bathe it all
with the gold of your smile.
But, if one day I grow tired
of praying to ears that appear to be
indifferent to getting this twisted world fixed,
and I start ignoring you like a broken doll
which cannot either speak or listen,
I guess you will take me out with your beaming fingers
from the shadow where I quietly lingered.
And then the oldest brat
will whisper in my ears his secret:
he will prevent me from telling his parents but
the whole world once belonged to him
and yet he has changed it for the treat
of one single poem.
PREGNANT
Sunday we sit
side by side
by Sunday’s heat
she fumbles and combs
through a purse from which surged
a change maybe a cigarette stump
says in frustration any
plastic flower has got
more life than ours
as if life were a burden
that one carries
in a bag in a pocket
and I am an empty urn but
we are glad to inform
pregnant
side by side
by Sunday’s heat
she fumbles and combs
through a purse from which surged
a change maybe a cigarette stump
says in frustration any
plastic flower has got
more life than ours
as if life were a burden
that one carries
in a bag in a pocket
and I am an empty urn but
we are glad to inform
pregnant
AT SUNSET N. 1
Observed from this height,
the city and its thick web of lonelinesses
seems so fragile that a sole sleight
of hand could cause it some damage.
Therefore, I guard it as a vigilant watchdog,
only fully aware
that If I dared look any other way
in a single instant the whole day
would vanish into thin air.
I believe there are more things to a sunset
than just the wincing breeze sweeping from all corners,
or the procession of walks of life that leave their precedence
to others of less coy countenance.
It is the horizon itself, nearing from the distance,
which slowly takes on and contagions.
And all beings gain those dim outlines
of an aging word, worn out in the brims,
painfully resisting from getting entwined.
The same way I waver in swerving the sight from the city lights,
it seems the day has trouble leaving behind those who will stay,
as it gradually gives away, bound to be substituted.
And, while it crumbles into dust after bleeding in the dusk,
and the world as I know turns into a ghost before my eyes,
I finally realize, without epiphany and without a fright,
that this twilight takes its leave only on my inside,
or else we both have
never existed.
the city and its thick web of lonelinesses
seems so fragile that a sole sleight
of hand could cause it some damage.
Therefore, I guard it as a vigilant watchdog,
only fully aware
that If I dared look any other way
in a single instant the whole day
would vanish into thin air.
I believe there are more things to a sunset
than just the wincing breeze sweeping from all corners,
or the procession of walks of life that leave their precedence
to others of less coy countenance.
It is the horizon itself, nearing from the distance,
which slowly takes on and contagions.
And all beings gain those dim outlines
of an aging word, worn out in the brims,
painfully resisting from getting entwined.
The same way I waver in swerving the sight from the city lights,
it seems the day has trouble leaving behind those who will stay,
as it gradually gives away, bound to be substituted.
And, while it crumbles into dust after bleeding in the dusk,
and the world as I know turns into a ghost before my eyes,
I finally realize, without epiphany and without a fright,
that this twilight takes its leave only on my inside,
or else we both have
never existed.
BEGGING BOWL
Ich schreie um eine Kleinigkeit,
Die Dichter schreien um mehr.
(Rilke)
I learned to walk awry, squeezed between shades,
just to avoid being trampled by their pace,
and do all of my talking without a voice,
begging only among the narrow choice
of what you deny or doesn’t really matter.
Therefore, I beg for the love from the dogs,
and encore from those birds that chatter.
I beg scorn from my flocks of mockers,
and huge silences from a range of mountains.
The space I ask for pace,
and beg breath of the air.
I plead with sleep to set me in rest and then release,
and with rain to quench my thirst (first things first, please).
The heat I expect to come unbearably near,
and death as possibly unfamiliar, quivering with fear.
Of those who don’t hold it, I only ask for faith,
and of will, well, what it may.
With the shadows I may have shed, I beg pardon,
and from light that extra bit to read between the lines.
In the beginning, I hope for itchy feet,
and, in the end, wings would be fit for a king.
Of answers, I beg to differ and riot,
and beg questions to beg so they never go quiet.
When time passes by, I shout, hey guy, slow down!,
but of life all I wish is that we both keep on swirling around.
By the moon, I long for its loony moods,
and, by sun, noon as soon as it's always produced.
Who might so prefer can toss some dough,
for there is always empty room in my begging bowl.
But in the event I fall by accident short of failures,
then I will beg my tongue not to falter and insist
on longing even for things that won't exist:
like coins on my squalid saucer
or discretion from a protesting militant rainbow.
I'll order all Caesars to deliver what belongs to earth's creatures,
and fend myself all fences from off the firmament.
I will have decided by decree that stepmother impossibility
ought no longer to intrude on the likings of me and you.
Fits or overbrims the top of my hat, I shall beg for the very blue
in the sky, and have my bath with it next Saturday,
till I go so light, you won't believe your own eyes
when you see me flying. But never mind.
Thus, as the stock markets thud
together with the shades on the dying day,
it is me again you will see
escaping with the angels from the church frieze,
shitting on the tourists.
Then I will only beg you to mind
you don’t slide.
Die Dichter schreien um mehr.
(Rilke)
I learned to walk awry, squeezed between shades,
just to avoid being trampled by their pace,
and do all of my talking without a voice,
begging only among the narrow choice
of what you deny or doesn’t really matter.
Therefore, I beg for the love from the dogs,
and encore from those birds that chatter.
I beg scorn from my flocks of mockers,
and huge silences from a range of mountains.
The space I ask for pace,
and beg breath of the air.
I plead with sleep to set me in rest and then release,
and with rain to quench my thirst (first things first, please).
The heat I expect to come unbearably near,
and death as possibly unfamiliar, quivering with fear.
Of those who don’t hold it, I only ask for faith,
and of will, well, what it may.
With the shadows I may have shed, I beg pardon,
and from light that extra bit to read between the lines.
In the beginning, I hope for itchy feet,
and, in the end, wings would be fit for a king.
Of answers, I beg to differ and riot,
and beg questions to beg so they never go quiet.
When time passes by, I shout, hey guy, slow down!,
but of life all I wish is that we both keep on swirling around.
By the moon, I long for its loony moods,
and, by sun, noon as soon as it's always produced.
Who might so prefer can toss some dough,
for there is always empty room in my begging bowl.
But in the event I fall by accident short of failures,
then I will beg my tongue not to falter and insist
on longing even for things that won't exist:
like coins on my squalid saucer
or discretion from a protesting militant rainbow.
I'll order all Caesars to deliver what belongs to earth's creatures,
and fend myself all fences from off the firmament.
I will have decided by decree that stepmother impossibility
ought no longer to intrude on the likings of me and you.
Fits or overbrims the top of my hat, I shall beg for the very blue
in the sky, and have my bath with it next Saturday,
till I go so light, you won't believe your own eyes
when you see me flying. But never mind.
Thus, as the stock markets thud
together with the shades on the dying day,
it is me again you will see
escaping with the angels from the church frieze,
shitting on the tourists.
Then I will only beg you to mind
you don’t slide.
IN JAIL
Would you deign to follow me? No.
You know who damned you are talking to?
Sorry, but I can be of no help, Sir.
Probably we were not introduced before.
But if I meet someone who could tell me your name,
Next time, I will be most pleased to inform.
Arrested for contempt.
I ask to take the dog along.
By himself, he pisses profusely on the poles,
craps on the sign that reads dogs forbidden.
He exhibited little concern.
But I earned an extra slap for the dirty wording.
Damp dump! The hair grows all curled.
The boys ask me to unfurl my revelations.
Well let’s get something straight here:
I’m no prophet, but a poet, and the things I won’t disclose
are so important I totally forgot them.
Never bother, from now on you sleep on the stone.
O naughty tongue! You speak for me,
while I take the blows!
But if it were you to be beaten up
every time I shut me up,
I guess you’d make up stoic reasons
for your duty to lick them boots.
You know who damned you are talking to?
Sorry, but I can be of no help, Sir.
Probably we were not introduced before.
But if I meet someone who could tell me your name,
Next time, I will be most pleased to inform.
Arrested for contempt.
I ask to take the dog along.
By himself, he pisses profusely on the poles,
craps on the sign that reads dogs forbidden.
He exhibited little concern.
But I earned an extra slap for the dirty wording.
Damp dump! The hair grows all curled.
The boys ask me to unfurl my revelations.
Well let’s get something straight here:
I’m no prophet, but a poet, and the things I won’t disclose
are so important I totally forgot them.
Never bother, from now on you sleep on the stone.
O naughty tongue! You speak for me,
while I take the blows!
But if it were you to be beaten up
every time I shut me up,
I guess you’d make up stoic reasons
for your duty to lick them boots.
PARRHESÍA
I am insane and dare say what gets in my head.
None takes notice if I blame or disparage.
I am insane and got no reason to dissent.
I might as well stifle on the stuff I stutter.
Nobody cares whether I hush or utter my mutter.
Each man has a glass ceiling, but since I’m nuts I’m forgiven
without right to trial and appealing. From child we learn
everyone should better turn to mad-songs a deaf ear.
They say people can’t hear what displeases them.
Then crazy is someone who can only listen.
None takes notice if I blame or disparage.
I am insane and got no reason to dissent.
I might as well stifle on the stuff I stutter.
Nobody cares whether I hush or utter my mutter.
Each man has a glass ceiling, but since I’m nuts I’m forgiven
without right to trial and appealing. From child we learn
everyone should better turn to mad-songs a deaf ear.
They say people can’t hear what displeases them.
Then crazy is someone who can only listen.
INVITATION TO AN ISLAND
The aftermath of the morning’s surge
froths up in the furling waters.
The sea deluges from the sky
and pours down on the Earth
which looks even bluer
from a close-up stance.
A friend drops in and shakes me up,
suggesting we should show up on the shore.
But I, well I still sluggishly flow
in a slow sleep undertow,
I say yes maybe I go, but not in these small hours,
don’t wait on me, I only follow along later on.
Midday, the blaring webs
of sunbeams pack in tangles
and on an infinite arch the day dangles.
As a ceaseless loaf, the horizon brews,
and the glass dome over a deep blue
looks like a capsized cup.
My folks dust off the shadows from their clothes,
as though only dressed with their very nakedness,
they poll in unison for a beach stroll.
I say I might as well go,
but right now I feel like some more quiet,
I just want to leave as soon as the sun retreats.
The sea roars, calling for its prey.
The colours multiply in spirit shades
that barely fit the palette plate.
The leaves grumble about the sultry haze,
and the heat, like an impertinent tramp,
frightens the birds from off the branches.
The girls from the neighbourhood
turn up to inquire if this afternoon
I won’t let them down, but will provide
them company, a bit more and the sun will hide.
Not just yet, I still prefer to wrap in my laze,
but in the event it gets soothed,
who knows if I end this evening
also wrapped up in sand.
After the day has made its time,
the wind brings a far-off voice,
but there is nobody nearby:
it is the sun sighing for me to see it bleeding,
pretending it is going to die,
but I shouldn’t take it so seriously.
And there I up and go on my own,
traveling the darkened paths
that all have stamped and abandoned.
I can finally part because now I know
my eyes will not get distracted
by the crowds of colours
the day has enacted onto the world.
And so I will able to be all ears to
the waves’ choir, and as fluid
as the leaves and the lumping shadows,
light of all the things
I didn’t want and don’t lug along with me,
I will be the very first to arrive near there,
where the sea takes stock and fares
towards the beach that lies on
the other side of horizon.
froths up in the furling waters.
The sea deluges from the sky
and pours down on the Earth
which looks even bluer
from a close-up stance.
A friend drops in and shakes me up,
suggesting we should show up on the shore.
But I, well I still sluggishly flow
in a slow sleep undertow,
I say yes maybe I go, but not in these small hours,
don’t wait on me, I only follow along later on.
Midday, the blaring webs
of sunbeams pack in tangles
and on an infinite arch the day dangles.
As a ceaseless loaf, the horizon brews,
and the glass dome over a deep blue
looks like a capsized cup.
My folks dust off the shadows from their clothes,
as though only dressed with their very nakedness,
they poll in unison for a beach stroll.
I say I might as well go,
but right now I feel like some more quiet,
I just want to leave as soon as the sun retreats.
The sea roars, calling for its prey.
The colours multiply in spirit shades
that barely fit the palette plate.
The leaves grumble about the sultry haze,
and the heat, like an impertinent tramp,
frightens the birds from off the branches.
The girls from the neighbourhood
turn up to inquire if this afternoon
I won’t let them down, but will provide
them company, a bit more and the sun will hide.
Not just yet, I still prefer to wrap in my laze,
but in the event it gets soothed,
who knows if I end this evening
also wrapped up in sand.
After the day has made its time,
the wind brings a far-off voice,
but there is nobody nearby:
it is the sun sighing for me to see it bleeding,
pretending it is going to die,
but I shouldn’t take it so seriously.
And there I up and go on my own,
traveling the darkened paths
that all have stamped and abandoned.
I can finally part because now I know
my eyes will not get distracted
by the crowds of colours
the day has enacted onto the world.
And so I will able to be all ears to
the waves’ choir, and as fluid
as the leaves and the lumping shadows,
light of all the things
I didn’t want and don’t lug along with me,
I will be the very first to arrive near there,
where the sea takes stock and fares
towards the beach that lies on
the other side of horizon.
MESSAGE IN A BOTTLE TO THE LOST SOULS
I also went after the goal of life
where it was nowhere in sight
and got myself lost.
And yet, by gaining the same track
which had zoomed me and dropped me back
to another point in the space-time fabric,
I finally realised that all my non-finding
in a really strange coincidence,
now pointed down to the path
I had long been tracing by blind chance.
I met another insane who would swear he was Napoleon.
He believed that his ultimate design in life
was to cross the imaginary ocean stretches
which would retrieve him from his inner island.
But the poor devil would always go missing
before the little pissing pond bridge.
If he passed away without much trespassing,
he did not fail to assign a meaning,
lame as it was, to his dim existence,
and so clear his appearance.
As in his case, meanings to our living do not locate outside of us.
Rich or barren, they are stories we keep telling
to our private believing.
Their significance does not exactly belong
to the realm of meanings,
but to the will to have a meaning.
As in all narration, they convey more of artifact
than just feigned fact, and so their tallest truth
falls by definition short
of our craziest ambitions.
where it was nowhere in sight
and got myself lost.
And yet, by gaining the same track
which had zoomed me and dropped me back
to another point in the space-time fabric,
I finally realised that all my non-finding
in a really strange coincidence,
now pointed down to the path
I had long been tracing by blind chance.
I met another insane who would swear he was Napoleon.
He believed that his ultimate design in life
was to cross the imaginary ocean stretches
which would retrieve him from his inner island.
But the poor devil would always go missing
before the little pissing pond bridge.
If he passed away without much trespassing,
he did not fail to assign a meaning,
lame as it was, to his dim existence,
and so clear his appearance.
As in his case, meanings to our living do not locate outside of us.
Rich or barren, they are stories we keep telling
to our private believing.
Their significance does not exactly belong
to the realm of meanings,
but to the will to have a meaning.
As in all narration, they convey more of artifact
than just feigned fact, and so their tallest truth
falls by definition short
of our craziest ambitions.
A SONG BY CHANCE
I always laughed my head at chance’s tricks.
She is an old lady whose fickle mood finally made her lose it.
But who am I to say anything? I sure am less sane,
since I lack the rhyme or reason to crack
and even so am nuts in the looks and the guts.
How could I be of harm? I bet my shadow
that no offspring will spring from my siren-singing,
laden with laurel or unsung by the fools’ choral.
So I leave these leftovers on behalf of the resilencing workings
of undercover backcopies’ bookworms.
What have I perfected by trampling on earth
so that I could expect eternity in return?
I happily fed on my joys and aches, and still
got nothing to make up for it. Except the shallow
lightness of my shadow. Then, take it, as you will.
She is an old lady whose fickle mood finally made her lose it.
But who am I to say anything? I sure am less sane,
since I lack the rhyme or reason to crack
and even so am nuts in the looks and the guts.
How could I be of harm? I bet my shadow
that no offspring will spring from my siren-singing,
laden with laurel or unsung by the fools’ choral.
So I leave these leftovers on behalf of the resilencing workings
of undercover backcopies’ bookworms.
What have I perfected by trampling on earth
so that I could expect eternity in return?
I happily fed on my joys and aches, and still
got nothing to make up for it. Except the shallow
lightness of my shadow. Then, take it, as you will.
WHAT I WOULD SAY TO MY SON, IF I HAD ONE
as the sibyl
the things I know
I don’t know precisely
how to get them in the outside
reckless syllables
jump
without belt or a net
from one abyss to the next
the bigger knowledge
I lost by wailing born,
from now on your own lessons
you unlearn on your own resources
***
find a chick
and close that book
***.
please let the chick breathe
and go read
the things I know
I don’t know precisely
how to get them in the outside
reckless syllables
jump
without belt or a net
from one abyss to the next
the bigger knowledge
I lost by wailing born,
from now on your own lessons
you unlearn on your own resources
***
find a chick
and close that book
***.
please let the chick breathe
and go read
FAREWELL
It was a bug that climbed
its branches onto my air pipes
and slowly drained my gasp
or freed it at last.
Now I lie on a street bench.
No bird, no cloud, nobody
will take heed of it.
They will sure suppose
that I only proceed with my conspicuous sleeping,
until the first stone flung from
one of the boy’s catapult toys
will miss its aim at snatching me from my dreaming.
Goodbye spinning planet I leave behind,
full of all the beautiful things we found out
or have them invented for our amusement.
Goodbye unfathomable oceans, blue mountains,
seaquakes, cheesecakes and misguiding myriads of stars,
rapped and ragged rhymes, telegraph and dotted lines.
Public and private doves, the skeleton keys to open
enclosed skies. Goodbye to you, streets, my second natures.
All of you were bits of me and still surround me on the brink now,
though ground seems to have grown so thin, it barely fits my feet...
I have never really gone anywhere without a good company.
My steps just echoed other steps
that stomped along my way,
not only from those who haven’t been born yet,
but also from those who have switched off already.
Thus, from the lamp in my hand trickled
not only the glare which tied my feet to the ground,
but shades were also shed all around,
and this way between the visible and the invisible
my path could tread its hard-won balance.
That is why I know there are no margins in the world.
No walls put up between a side in and an inside-out.
No boundaries of time opposing today and yesterday.
And margins really make no difference
unless we hang on one of them.
I join the ones who long crossed,
in the country where we are all lost,
naked and nameless,
as we used to be before finding
our way out of silence.
But among all the creatures in the world the man alone
sorts out the stirring from the still in an ambiguous whole,
as solely we men walk our deaths all about
without ever knowing what we gain or miss,
we should have noticed better that whatever
we gain or miss can always only go amiss.
Goodbye big archaic capitalistic city,
pimp and rachitic,
my still sneering
fool-bells salute you!
O sweet morning without me!
As I bid farewell, I hope as I had always promised
to have collected all the memories I have ever aroused,
leaving everything just the same way I encountered
on being allowed. Thus, be sure I will disturb you no longer,
abandoning here only this worn backpack
with my non-belongings.
(Please observe that I am an old man by now
and old men do not usually earn acclaim
for the force of their recollection.
In case I forgot any, blame it on chance,
and keep clear my own remembrance).
Now let my words go to the dogs.
its branches onto my air pipes
and slowly drained my gasp
or freed it at last.
Now I lie on a street bench.
No bird, no cloud, nobody
will take heed of it.
They will sure suppose
that I only proceed with my conspicuous sleeping,
until the first stone flung from
one of the boy’s catapult toys
will miss its aim at snatching me from my dreaming.
Goodbye spinning planet I leave behind,
full of all the beautiful things we found out
or have them invented for our amusement.
Goodbye unfathomable oceans, blue mountains,
seaquakes, cheesecakes and misguiding myriads of stars,
rapped and ragged rhymes, telegraph and dotted lines.
Public and private doves, the skeleton keys to open
enclosed skies. Goodbye to you, streets, my second natures.
All of you were bits of me and still surround me on the brink now,
though ground seems to have grown so thin, it barely fits my feet...
I have never really gone anywhere without a good company.
My steps just echoed other steps
that stomped along my way,
not only from those who haven’t been born yet,
but also from those who have switched off already.
Thus, from the lamp in my hand trickled
not only the glare which tied my feet to the ground,
but shades were also shed all around,
and this way between the visible and the invisible
my path could tread its hard-won balance.
That is why I know there are no margins in the world.
No walls put up between a side in and an inside-out.
No boundaries of time opposing today and yesterday.
And margins really make no difference
unless we hang on one of them.
I join the ones who long crossed,
in the country where we are all lost,
naked and nameless,
as we used to be before finding
our way out of silence.
But among all the creatures in the world the man alone
sorts out the stirring from the still in an ambiguous whole,
as solely we men walk our deaths all about
without ever knowing what we gain or miss,
we should have noticed better that whatever
we gain or miss can always only go amiss.
Goodbye big archaic capitalistic city,
pimp and rachitic,
my still sneering
fool-bells salute you!
O sweet morning without me!
As I bid farewell, I hope as I had always promised
to have collected all the memories I have ever aroused,
leaving everything just the same way I encountered
on being allowed. Thus, be sure I will disturb you no longer,
abandoning here only this worn backpack
with my non-belongings.
(Please observe that I am an old man by now
and old men do not usually earn acclaim
for the force of their recollection.
In case I forgot any, blame it on chance,
and keep clear my own remembrance).
Now let my words go to the dogs.
LETTER OF FRANCHISE
I open a door that gives way to
a closed room
I open the room that sets me apart
from the door which opens
to another room
I open and come face to face with
the thickness of space
the limitless breath of blue
I open a closed
door as secret and
teasing as a new friend
I open a door
past or behind it
how many worlds
a closed room
I open the room that sets me apart
from the door which opens
to another room
I open and come face to face with
the thickness of space
the limitless breath of blue
I open a closed
door as secret and
teasing as a new friend
I open a door
past or behind it
how many worlds
A CHESS MATCH
the pawns are like forwards,
attacking as if broad majority
in apprehensive order,
well, they are truly more of
cannon-fodder
the horses swing
via swastika springs
as politically impolite
old Arian knights
the castles, so isolated and stupid,
must lodge poets and/or politicians
banished on duty
the bishops move
in devious ways
the queen
under those veils
cheekily trails
all about the scene
and the king
is a poor thing,
squeezing in the corners
with his wanna-be mourners,
severely bound to have
his head severed
attacking as if broad majority
in apprehensive order,
well, they are truly more of
cannon-fodder
the horses swing
via swastika springs
as politically impolite
old Arian knights
the castles, so isolated and stupid,
must lodge poets and/or politicians
banished on duty
the bishops move
in devious ways
the queen
under those veils
cheekily trails
all about the scene
and the king
is a poor thing,
squeezing in the corners
with his wanna-be mourners,
severely bound to have
his head severed
RAINBOW
jets red orange
in the open launched
yellow air green
indigo purple falling
on the mid-afternoon
washing blue
the blue sky clean
in the open launched
yellow air green
indigo purple falling
on the mid-afternoon
washing blue
the blue sky clean
DIE GOLDENEN PFERDCHEN
Andar é verbo
na freqüentação de um presente
em que só temos o que perdemos
(Alberto Pucheu)
Zwei Pferdchen aus falschem Gold auf dem Tisch
fressen die Stille ihrer Hufeisen und lassen sich
zaumlos wandern, nicht nur im Raum,
der sie passend bewahrt und festlegt,
sondern auch in den Augen und Ohren
wo solche altmodischen Schmucke
eine Nostalgie des Bleibens erweckt.
Ihnen gehört also diese Todesart: ein rampanter Stillstand.
Kein Traum jedoch, denn so ein halbes Verlassen ähnelt lieber
den stehenden Tiefen der schuldigen Schlaflosigkeit
als dem obenliegenden Schatz eines reinen Gewissens.
Und das unvermeidliche Aufstehen zersetzt nur
was gut eine Ruhe sein könnte.
Wenn auch träumend, trotten sie weiter,
obwohl wie bei irgendeiner Figur,
ihre Gebärden scheinen sich versteinert zu haben,
sodass keine Dämmerung und keine Geburt
in denen abzulesen sind. Ihre Schritte
nur vermischen und verwischen sich,
als die Perlen einer Halskette, sobald der Faden zerrissen ist.
Und ein neues Zug wird nie die bleichen Gesichter kratzen.
Meine Stimme gibt diese stummen Tierchen wieder
und meine unmögliche Geschichte widerhallt sich in ihrer.
Meine Bilder lassen sich auch nirgendwo irren:
ich bin der Spiegel ihres Goldes und schaue uns nur durch,
unbewegt aber unberuhigt.
na freqüentação de um presente
em que só temos o que perdemos
(Alberto Pucheu)
Zwei Pferdchen aus falschem Gold auf dem Tisch
fressen die Stille ihrer Hufeisen und lassen sich
zaumlos wandern, nicht nur im Raum,
der sie passend bewahrt und festlegt,
sondern auch in den Augen und Ohren
wo solche altmodischen Schmucke
eine Nostalgie des Bleibens erweckt.
Ihnen gehört also diese Todesart: ein rampanter Stillstand.
Kein Traum jedoch, denn so ein halbes Verlassen ähnelt lieber
den stehenden Tiefen der schuldigen Schlaflosigkeit
als dem obenliegenden Schatz eines reinen Gewissens.
Und das unvermeidliche Aufstehen zersetzt nur
was gut eine Ruhe sein könnte.
Wenn auch träumend, trotten sie weiter,
obwohl wie bei irgendeiner Figur,
ihre Gebärden scheinen sich versteinert zu haben,
sodass keine Dämmerung und keine Geburt
in denen abzulesen sind. Ihre Schritte
nur vermischen und verwischen sich,
als die Perlen einer Halskette, sobald der Faden zerrissen ist.
Und ein neues Zug wird nie die bleichen Gesichter kratzen.
Meine Stimme gibt diese stummen Tierchen wieder
und meine unmögliche Geschichte widerhallt sich in ihrer.
Meine Bilder lassen sich auch nirgendwo irren:
ich bin der Spiegel ihres Goldes und schaue uns nur durch,
unbewegt aber unberuhigt.
EL SENTIDO DE LA PIERDA
Un rojo desde el suelo se levantaba hasta tocar el cielo.
El día, mal dormido, ya se despertaba.
Pero las casas, parecían pintarse de nuevo las caras
de humo y bermejo, para vigilar desde las pestañas bajadas
la llegada de un nuevo visitante al borde del barrio viejo.
Zapatos huecos besaban la tierra como si bailaran
al sonido de las guarañas que desbortaban
sobre las puertas, unas más viejas, otras novatas.
Un rojo sólo rojo como si lloviera sangre sobre el mundo entero
nos ahogando desde la vigilia hasta las pesadillas.
“¿Quién era el tipo que Le acompañaba?”.
Ella tenía algunas décadas, la espalda curvada,
sobre la cabeza un blanco recalcado que quisiera
explotar de su cabellera. Dijo algunas cifras espantadas –
no bien comprendidas para un intruso en portugués,
fechas, direcciones, números de pasaporte,
de quien se contestaba, nada guardaba,
sino en la boca una copa de besos
echados a perder, más nada.
Pedro Juan Caballero: de éste me acuerdo,
un yermo lleno de brasiguayos y de chicas guapas,
demasiado guapas para nosotras de más edad.
Mi habitación la compartía con vasos sin ganas,
que tendían en los dedos sus cigarrillos muertos,
había un devano heredado, ¿o tendría sido hurtado?
sobre el que también volcada y fumando me creía
colmar de falsa sofisticación el sin-hacer del día a día.
Porque estuve menos hermosa, menos lista al amor,
yo misma, la callejera, conduje desde la china
Ciudad del Este, hacia Curitiba, la polaca.
Tal vez porque el mar a todas nos invocaba serena.
Y todas las ciudades por donde pasamos
nos ofrecieron sus virtudes venales:
en las tiendas, bares y hospitales,
y todos los sitios donde estuvimos,
con tal de que pagáramos el precio establecido,
fuimos muy bien acogidos.
Poco a poco - más gente, coches, ruido,
más mundo bajo las estradas.
Desde Paraguay las ciudades se concentran,
luces se encienden, las cosas pesan.
Tal vez porque Paraguay es el margen,
y Pedro Juan Caballero,
el margen del margen.
Peregrinamos torpes como quien buscara
sentido o respuestas, pero sólo escuchara
el silencio de la taza de piedra calcárea.
Ella me miró con sus ningunos ojos como si me preguntara
y me calló con sus millones de voces como si me contestara.
Yo no sabía qué decirle ni más me detuve,
saber es peligroso y no suele premiar sus cómplices.
Al fin del periplo, delante a nuestra mirada agotada
por el lucero de los anuncios y el humo de las fábricas
se alzó fálica la Ciudad Abstracta.
Ciudad sin horizontes, toda muros,
ajena a la Tierra como una palabra.
Ciudad hecha de aire y de nada.
Yo no intenté leerla, pero se diría
una epístola de amor remitida
a hombres qué, por hábito de no verla,
nomás la hubieran devuelta,
pero cuya indiferencia la convirtiera
en mítica condenación de todo lo existente
culpable o inocente.
La claridad difusa en la tarde magenta
se nos echó sobre la cara
como agua olvidadiza que nos lavara
de certezas más antiguas.
Se consubstanció en nube espesa
que todo empañaba,
trayendo una promesa de opacidad
a manos cansadas de objetos distintos.
Después se disipó en su ubicuidad de pulpo y polvo.
Y los pasos quedaron pastosos, y las calles
daban a esconder sus destinos
como a secretos mal guardados,
atravesados constantemente
por una apurada gente.
Pero donde, quizás por olvido, se continua
manejando las cosas de siempre:
se hacen compras,
se produce gente, se llenan almacenes,
se miente al mundo,
se calcula lo que se pierde, y se conciben
pretextos seguros.
“¿Usted no acompañó los policías mientras sacaban
el narcótico desde el coche que conducía?”
Ella sabía y no sabía qué decir.
Todo le parecía un desierto de sentidos:
no lo sinsentido de la contestación,
pero la pregunta que se contesta,
no la memoria de lo ocurrido,
pero lo vivo detrás de la memoria.
Pero se me olvidan los caminos de volver.
Me olvida la muerte, mi condena es vivir
entre calles y rostros apagados, que disfrazan
un sin-rostro por detrás de los rostros.
Y nada quedan de historias nombres humores
que antes rellenaban cuerpos enteros.
¿Por que me persiguen sombras de las sombras,
como a una criatura rechazada,
si no traigo culpa, no traigo contado
para que les dé o que me roben?
¿Qué ojos de almas amontonadas
me ven desde las desechos?
Hay curiosidad en la manera como acechan,
ternura en el cuidado con que intentan
ajustarse al nuestro desprecio.
Más nada no se me acuerda, les digo.
Pierdo todo lo que estuvo conmigo.
Los días me dejaran como los novios,
citas, fechas, autobuses que pasaron antes de lo previsto.
Pierdo todo lo que he tenido,
incluso el olvido.
Y si hubiera al menos un momento,
que puntuara la lógica de los eventos…
Momento hecho de sueño y materia,
antes de la preclusión y del remordimiento,
momento para el recuerdo o el invento
de una música de esferas.
Pero no hay más tiempo.
Pero no hay más tiempo.
El día, mal dormido, ya se despertaba.
Pero las casas, parecían pintarse de nuevo las caras
de humo y bermejo, para vigilar desde las pestañas bajadas
la llegada de un nuevo visitante al borde del barrio viejo.
Zapatos huecos besaban la tierra como si bailaran
al sonido de las guarañas que desbortaban
sobre las puertas, unas más viejas, otras novatas.
Un rojo sólo rojo como si lloviera sangre sobre el mundo entero
nos ahogando desde la vigilia hasta las pesadillas.
“¿Quién era el tipo que Le acompañaba?”.
Ella tenía algunas décadas, la espalda curvada,
sobre la cabeza un blanco recalcado que quisiera
explotar de su cabellera. Dijo algunas cifras espantadas –
no bien comprendidas para un intruso en portugués,
fechas, direcciones, números de pasaporte,
de quien se contestaba, nada guardaba,
sino en la boca una copa de besos
echados a perder, más nada.
Pedro Juan Caballero: de éste me acuerdo,
un yermo lleno de brasiguayos y de chicas guapas,
demasiado guapas para nosotras de más edad.
Mi habitación la compartía con vasos sin ganas,
que tendían en los dedos sus cigarrillos muertos,
había un devano heredado, ¿o tendría sido hurtado?
sobre el que también volcada y fumando me creía
colmar de falsa sofisticación el sin-hacer del día a día.
Porque estuve menos hermosa, menos lista al amor,
yo misma, la callejera, conduje desde la china
Ciudad del Este, hacia Curitiba, la polaca.
Tal vez porque el mar a todas nos invocaba serena.
Y todas las ciudades por donde pasamos
nos ofrecieron sus virtudes venales:
en las tiendas, bares y hospitales,
y todos los sitios donde estuvimos,
con tal de que pagáramos el precio establecido,
fuimos muy bien acogidos.
Poco a poco - más gente, coches, ruido,
más mundo bajo las estradas.
Desde Paraguay las ciudades se concentran,
luces se encienden, las cosas pesan.
Tal vez porque Paraguay es el margen,
y Pedro Juan Caballero,
el margen del margen.
Peregrinamos torpes como quien buscara
sentido o respuestas, pero sólo escuchara
el silencio de la taza de piedra calcárea.
Ella me miró con sus ningunos ojos como si me preguntara
y me calló con sus millones de voces como si me contestara.
Yo no sabía qué decirle ni más me detuve,
saber es peligroso y no suele premiar sus cómplices.
Al fin del periplo, delante a nuestra mirada agotada
por el lucero de los anuncios y el humo de las fábricas
se alzó fálica la Ciudad Abstracta.
Ciudad sin horizontes, toda muros,
ajena a la Tierra como una palabra.
Ciudad hecha de aire y de nada.
Yo no intenté leerla, pero se diría
una epístola de amor remitida
a hombres qué, por hábito de no verla,
nomás la hubieran devuelta,
pero cuya indiferencia la convirtiera
en mítica condenación de todo lo existente
culpable o inocente.
La claridad difusa en la tarde magenta
se nos echó sobre la cara
como agua olvidadiza que nos lavara
de certezas más antiguas.
Se consubstanció en nube espesa
que todo empañaba,
trayendo una promesa de opacidad
a manos cansadas de objetos distintos.
Después se disipó en su ubicuidad de pulpo y polvo.
Y los pasos quedaron pastosos, y las calles
daban a esconder sus destinos
como a secretos mal guardados,
atravesados constantemente
por una apurada gente.
Pero donde, quizás por olvido, se continua
manejando las cosas de siempre:
se hacen compras,
se produce gente, se llenan almacenes,
se miente al mundo,
se calcula lo que se pierde, y se conciben
pretextos seguros.
“¿Usted no acompañó los policías mientras sacaban
el narcótico desde el coche que conducía?”
Ella sabía y no sabía qué decir.
Todo le parecía un desierto de sentidos:
no lo sinsentido de la contestación,
pero la pregunta que se contesta,
no la memoria de lo ocurrido,
pero lo vivo detrás de la memoria.
Pero se me olvidan los caminos de volver.
Me olvida la muerte, mi condena es vivir
entre calles y rostros apagados, que disfrazan
un sin-rostro por detrás de los rostros.
Y nada quedan de historias nombres humores
que antes rellenaban cuerpos enteros.
¿Por que me persiguen sombras de las sombras,
como a una criatura rechazada,
si no traigo culpa, no traigo contado
para que les dé o que me roben?
¿Qué ojos de almas amontonadas
me ven desde las desechos?
Hay curiosidad en la manera como acechan,
ternura en el cuidado con que intentan
ajustarse al nuestro desprecio.
Más nada no se me acuerda, les digo.
Pierdo todo lo que estuvo conmigo.
Los días me dejaran como los novios,
citas, fechas, autobuses que pasaron antes de lo previsto.
Pierdo todo lo que he tenido,
incluso el olvido.
Y si hubiera al menos un momento,
que puntuara la lógica de los eventos…
Momento hecho de sueño y materia,
antes de la preclusión y del remordimiento,
momento para el recuerdo o el invento
de una música de esferas.
Pero no hay más tiempo.
Pero no hay más tiempo.
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