tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-136716452024-03-29T03:28:59.251+00:00Frágil 2.0In the fell clutch of circumstance, I have not winced nor cried aloud. Under the bludgeonings of chance, my head is bloody, but unbowed.RAMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02484212474176579579noreply@blogger.comBlogger4865125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13671645.post-78379802830456858092024-03-28T01:27:00.000+00:002024-03-28T04:30:04.224+00:00incertezas...<i>Nem sempre é exacta a luz, ou prudente </i><div><i>dizer, pela inclinação do sol, qual a parte </i></div><div><i>do dia a que nos devolve, como de um sonho, vindos </i></div><div><i>das sombras e do chilrear insone </i></div><div><i>dos pássaros no jardim </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>Nem sempre é a mesma a latitude </i></div><div><i>em que o pavão nos lança aos dedos os seus olhos de veludo </i></div><div><i>para cerrá-los depois </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>A tarde dissolve-se na relva, um prodígio </i></div><div><i>da estirpe da esperança que existe </i></div><div><i>em cada manhã, e se olhamos para trás </i></div><div><i>não temos hálito ou sombra que nos situe </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>Podemos pensar-nos em paz - a mesma </i></div><div><i>palidez é a de um pêssego e a do desespero </i></div><div><i>Podemos pensar-nos sozinhos e sonoros, únicos </i></div><div><i>sobreviventes de todo o barulho, </i></div><div><i>de tanta geração bravia</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>Andreia C. Faria</i></div>RAMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02484212474176579579noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13671645.post-88862806451603769452024-03-27T01:11:00.000+00:002024-03-27T05:57:07.271+00:00surgical.<i>From her perch on the docent’s gloved wrist, she </i><div><i>watches us with the eyes of any creature handled too </i></div><div><i>much: featherless head a closed door, body a mask of </i></div><div><i>silence. In the steep twilight descending like the </i></div><div><i>backwards count of a nurse’s voice leading a patient </i></div><div><i>into unconsciousness, the handler explains to our </i></div><div><i>circle the generalities of the species - the turkey </i></div><div><i>vulture’s primary form of self-defense is the </i></div><div><i>regurgitation of semi-digested meat that is then </i></div><div><i>vomited onto a predator’s face - and the </i></div><div><i>particularities of this one, who had come to them with </i></div><div><i>a broken wing. I, too, have places on my body knitted </i></div><div><i>back together by unseen hands, scars laid while I slept </i></div><div><i>the sleep of the unknowing: one above the belly </i></div><div><i>button, and another below where two fingers must </i></div><div><i>have parted the dark hair before shaving a path. Does </i></div><div><i>she remember the first faces to peer toward her as she </i></div><div><i>surfaced? Every time I try to write what those hands </i></div><div><i>did, I end up plunging my own fingers deep inside </i></div><div><i>until I pull up the voice of the surgeon in post-op: </i>I </div><div>usually have to pay women to take their clothes off for </div><div>me<i>. Oh, the shudder of her black-feathered shoulders. </i></div><div><i>Oh, the bile rising in her throat</i><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>Keetje Kuipers</i></div></div>RAMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02484212474176579579noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13671645.post-27874932395912565092024-03-26T01:18:00.001+00:002024-03-26T04:20:53.162+00:00tuba.uteri.<i>In diagrams, there’s one on either side of </i><div><i><span> </span>the uterus. But they float </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i><span> </span>around the coral pouch, tangle up, </i></div><div><i><span> <span> </span></span>the surgeon said. </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>Cilia sway like seagrass, </i></div><div><i><span> </span>the tube wall pulsing with waves </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i><span> </span>of hairs to push the genetic scribble </i></div><div><i><span> <span> </span></span>through, out -</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>Though not for me. I think of prior women knifed open </i></div><div><i><span> </span>to first acquire this knowledge. </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i><span> </span>I think of vespers </i></div><div><i><span> <span> </span></span>mumbled over their noses and cheeks </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>while the last few stars </i></div><div><i><span> </span>of thought punctuated the mind. </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i><span> </span>Blood smelled the same in the sixteenth </i></div><div><i><span> <span> </span></span>century. Rain on flagstones, clay and spit. </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>Gabriele Falloppio also studied the labyrinth </i></div><div><i><span> </span>of the ear. Held the tiny drum </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i><span> </span>lightly in his palm. But the pink string </i></div><div><i><span> <span> </span></span>I saw in my surgeon’s photograph </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>resembles a trumpet - the pipes </i></div><div><i><span> </span>pumped as though by a mouth. </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><span style="font-style: italic;"> </span><i>Pucker, kiss.</i><span style="font-style: italic;"> </span>Tuba uteri<i>. </i></div><div><i><span> <span> </span></span>We say </i>tube<i>. Flared opening releasing </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>a breath of something. A legislated </i></div><div><i><span> </span>cell. There are raw edges to everything </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i><span> </span>if you look </i></div><div><i><span> <span> </span></span>closely. My stowaway was </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>a silkworm caught in the grass, gathering </i></div><div><i><span> </span>red fibers in a squashed hell. </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i><span> </span>My forehead cold. And my hands. My face </i></div><div><i><span> <span> </span></span>a wooden figurehead growing mold </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>fixed to the bow of a smashed ship. </i></div><div><i><span> </span>Nautical needle spinning between </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i><span> </span>North and South. Where was I? </i>Where </div><div> <span> </span>was I<i>? Pinned and saved. In the photo, </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>the surgeon’s tool lifts the strand: </i></div><div><i><span> </span>it bulges like a snake. </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i><span> </span>Cracks caulked with blood. Ripping open. </i></div><div><i><span> <span> </span></span>The organs around what’s missing and their red </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>verbena will shift in the cavity. Are shifting now. The veined </i></div><div><i><span> </span>purse settles. Absence filling in. </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i><span> </span>I do not feel </i></div><div><i><span> <span> <span> </span></span></span>that work except that </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>I do.</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>Tyler Mills</i></div>RAMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02484212474176579579noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13671645.post-86674812273677043692024-03-25T01:09:00.003+00:002024-03-25T04:13:22.308+00:00do porvir...<div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">para Ivonne A. Bordelois</span> </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><i>Amanhã </i></div><div><i>hão-de vestir-me com cinzas na aurora, </i></div><div><i>e encher-me a boca de flores. </i></div><div><i>Aprenderei a dormir </i></div><div><i>na memória de um muro, </i></div><div><i>na respiraçao </i></div><div><i>de um animal que sonha. </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>Alejandra Pizarnik</i></div>RAMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02484212474176579579noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13671645.post-78351905467914279492024-03-24T01:22:00.001+00:002024-03-24T12:30:16.450+00:00senhoras…<i>As mulheres têm formas mais curiosas</i><div><i>Se eu montasse um circo, em vez de elefantes </i></div><div><i>teria Senhoras com os seus diferentes </i></div><div><i>peitos coxas e rabos, todo o corpo fingimento, adereço </i></div><div><i>Senhoras com os seus diferentes </i></div><div><i>almoços, amantes e diferentes níveis de tonificação da alma, rivais </i></div><div><i>dos tigres desdenhosos, dos leões emparedados </i></div><div><i>Em vez de macacos teria </i></div><div><i>Senhoras de imitação, raparigas de ventre baixo, </i></div><div><i>a gravidade resoluta avançando-as, expiando </i></div><div><i>a obliquidade dos ossos de parir, a posição </i></div><div><i>correta, espiando umas as outras, </i></div><div><i>preferindo-se na paisagem no espelho </i></div><div><i>ao modelo enxuto, clássico, favorecido, </i></div><div><i>dos homens, espiando os ângulos, forçando a cabeça </i></div><div><i>a voltar-se para o sol para a luz onde </i></div><div><i>a mulher é como um papagaio ao vento -</i></div><div><i>várias cores, torções, inflamações diversas</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>Andreia C. Faria</i></div>RAMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02484212474176579579noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13671645.post-52775275136876302092024-03-23T01:28:00.000+00:002024-03-23T04:31:44.988+00:00(re)versos...<i>Lá fora há sol. </i><div><i>Não é mais do que um sol </i></div><div><i>Mas os homens olham-no </i></div><div><i>e depois cantam. </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>Eu não sei do sol. </i></div><div><i>Eu sei a melodia do anjo </i></div><div><i>e o sermão mais quente </i></div><div><i>do último vento. </i></div><div><i>Sei gritar até de madrugada </i></div><div><i>quando a morte vem posar nua </i></div><div><i>na minha sombra. </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>Eu choro debaixo do meu nome. </i></div><div><i>Eu agito lenços na noite </i></div><div><i>e barcos sedentos de realidade </i></div><div><i>dançam comigo. </i></div><div><i>Eu escondo pregos </i></div><div><i>para escarnecer dos meus sonhos doentes. </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>Lá fora há sol. </i></div><div><i>Eu visto-me de cinzas.</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>Alejandra Pizarnik</i></div>RAMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02484212474176579579noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13671645.post-58619157323925654752024-03-22T01:33:00.001+00:002024-03-22T04:41:08.436+00:00de.ti.em.ti.<i>Olho-te pelo reflexo </i><div><i>do vidro </i></div><div><i>e o coração na noite </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>E o meu desejo de ti </i></div><div><i>são lágrimas por dentro, </i></div><div><i>tão doídas e fundas </i></div><div><i>que se não fosse:</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i><span><span><span></span></span></span><span> <span> </span></span>o tempo de viver; </i></div><div><i><span> <span> </span></span>e a gente em social desencontrado; </i></div><div><i><span> <span> </span></span>e se tivesse a força; </i></div><div><i><span> <span> </span></span>e a janela ao meu lado </i></div><div><i><span> <span> </span></span>fosse alta e oportuna, </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>invadia de amor o teu reflexo </i></div><div><i>e em estilhaços de vidro </i></div><div><i>mergulhava em ti</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>Ana Luísa Amaral</i></div>RAMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02484212474176579579noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13671645.post-62044178740304734262024-03-21T01:12:00.001+00:002024-03-21T05:42:50.149+00:00(role)model<i>I always took it for granted, the right to vote </i><div><i>She said </i></div><div><i>And I knew what my mother meant </i></div><div><i>Her voice constricted tightly by the flu A virus</i></div><div><i>& a 30-year-relationship
with </i></div><div><i>Newport 100s </i></div><div>I ain’t no chain smoker </div><div><i>she attempts to silence my concern </i></div><div>only a pack a week. That’s good, you know?<i> </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>My mother survived a husband she didn’t want </i></div><div><i>and an addiction that loved her more </i></div><div><i>than any human needs </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>I sit to write a poem about the 100 year Anniversary </i></div><div><i>of the 19th Amendment </i></div><div><i>& my first thought returns to the womb </i></div><div><i>& those abortions I did not want at first </i></div><div><i>but alas </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>The thirst of an almost anything </i></div><div><i>is a gorge always looking to be </i></div><div><i>until the body is filled with more fibroids </i></div><div><i>than possibilities </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>On the 19th hour of the fourth day in a new decade </i></div><div><i>I will wake restless from some nightmare </i></div><div><i>about a bomb & a man with no backbone </i></div><div><i>on a golf course who clicks closed his Motorola phone </i></div><div><i>like an exclamation point against his misogynistic stance </i></div><div><i>He swings the golf club with each chant </i></div><div>Women let me grab </div><div>Women like me </div><div>Women vote until I say they don’t </div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>In my nightmare he is an infective agent </i></div><div><i>In the clear of day </i></div><div><i>he is just the same </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>Every day he breathes is a threat to this country’s marrow </i></div><div><i>For Ida & Susan & Lucretia & Elizabeth Cady </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>& every day he tweets grief </i></div><div><i>like a cynical cornball comic’s receipts </i></div><div><i>like a red light signaling the end of times </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>The final night of 2019 </i></div><div><i>& my New Year’s Eve plans involves </i></div><div><i>anything that will numb the pain </i></div><div><i>of a world breaking its own heart </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>My mother & I have already spoken </i></div><div><i>& her lungs are croaking wet </i></div><div>I just want you to know I don’t feel well<i> </i></div><div><i>& I pause to pull up my stockings beneath my crumpled smile </i></div><div><i>On this day I sigh </i></div><div><i>I just wanted to dance & drink & forget about the 61.7% votes </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>My silk dress falls to my knees with the same swiftness </i></div><div><i>defiant as the white feminist who said “I’m your ally” </i></div><div><i>then voted for the demise of our nation’s most ignored </i></div><div><i>underpaid, imprisoned & impoverished citizens </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>Every day there is a telephone near </i></div><div><i>I miss my mother </i></div><div><i>In the waiting room of the OB/GYN </i></div><div><i>Uptown bound on the dirt orange train seat of the subway </i></div><div><i>O! How my mother loves the places she can never go </i></div><div><i>Her bones swaddled with arthritis & smoke </i></div><div><i>So she relies on my daily bemoans </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>The train smells like yesterday, Ma </div><div>They raise the tolls & fix nothing for the people </div><div>My landlord refuses to fix my toilet, my bathroom sink, my refrigerator </div><div>The city is annoying like an old boyfriend, always buzzing about nothing </div><div>& in the way of me making it on time to the polls </div><div>This woman didn’t say thank you when I held the door </div><div>& who does she think she is? </div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>Each time I crack & cap on the everydayness of my day </i></div><div><i>My mother laughs as if she can see the flimsy MTA card </i></div><div><i>The yellow cabs that refuse to stop for her daughter </i></div><div><i>In these moments she can live again </i></div><div><i>A whole bodied woman with a full mouth </i></div><div><i>to speak it plain </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>I ask my mother what hurts? </div><div>What hurts? </div><div>How can I help from here? </div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>
3000 miles away </i></div><div><i>Alone in a tower between the sea </i></div><div><i>& the Mexico borders </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>My mother sighs a little sigh & says </i></div><div>Nothing </div><div>I just wanted to hear your voice</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><i>Mahogany L. Browne</i></div>RAMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02484212474176579579noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13671645.post-41238389445409647442024-03-20T01:04:00.000+00:002024-03-20T04:04:32.537+00:00nocturno...<i>Lenta declina a luz e a noite vai </i><div><i>Entrando azul no tardo entardecer. </i></div><div><i>Vaga e intérmina uma folha cai; </i></div><div><i>Subtil suspira um deus nesse descer. </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>De uma névoa lilás a lua sai </i></div><div><i>E quebra-se no mar sem se mover. </i></div><div><i>Sons e cores, vibrações, tudo se esvai </i></div><div><i>Num lânguido desejo de morrer. </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>Castidade da noite absoluta, </i></div><div><i>Num galho imaterial um silfo escuta </i></div><div><i>O segredo das flores que estão sonhando. </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>Êxtase. A eternidade passa perto. </i></div><div><i>Gotejam astros. O mundo está deserto. </i></div><div><i>Só eu existo, fantástica... esperando... </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>Natália Correia</i></div>RAMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02484212474176579579noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13671645.post-28856284476772785892024-03-19T00:55:00.000+00:002024-03-19T04:57:12.880+00:00tempo.<i>Corre tempo, que te alcança </i><div><i>a minha veloz lembrança </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>Corre tempo </i></div><div><i>corre tempo </i></div><div><i>corre tempo até o fim </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>que eu mesma passei por mim</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>Maria Ângela Alvim</i></div>RAMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02484212474176579579noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13671645.post-18981278572288389082024-03-18T01:36:00.001+00:002024-03-18T13:57:33.670+00:00come.<i>
Come, let us be friends, you and I, </i><div><i>E’en though the world doth hate at this hour; </i></div><div><i>Let’s bask in the sunlight of a love so high </i></div><div><i>That war cannot dim it with all its armed power. </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>Come, let us be friends, you and I, </i></div><div><i>The world hath her surplus of hatred today; </i></div><div><i>She needeth more love, see, she droops with a sigh, </i></div><div><i>Where her axis doth slant in the sky far away. </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>Come, let us be friends, you and I, </i></div><div><i>And love each other so deep and so well, </i></div><div><i>That the world may grow steady and forward fly, </i></div><div><i>Lest she wander towards chaos and drop into hell. </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>Sarah Lee Brown Fleming</i></div>RAMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02484212474176579579noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13671645.post-12171857600260802912024-03-17T01:12:00.022+00:002024-03-17T04:37:23.931+00:00quereres...<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuAfJLbUsKhUN_QtLXXSS7avpRv5yi8xtNhTYJQuJybO1zbfWZl13SwQvMZb4zjzo8on_UbhzMJOv4w0apLCfpX4uxBdFbM-yS5giJ2oUwLGLZ36MzY8GAg0GwolO2jaJF_o0HyoSOez4DJFGGKF_8G9MhoycBrdoHq4Z5gKEWhbz1ZKBWtmxp/s770/3660241-GAIZXLXT-32.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="597" data-original-width="770" height="496" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuAfJLbUsKhUN_QtLXXSS7avpRv5yi8xtNhTYJQuJybO1zbfWZl13SwQvMZb4zjzo8on_UbhzMJOv4w0apLCfpX4uxBdFbM-yS5giJ2oUwLGLZ36MzY8GAg0GwolO2jaJF_o0HyoSOez4DJFGGKF_8G9MhoycBrdoHq4Z5gKEWhbz1ZKBWtmxp/s770/3660241-GAIZXLXT-32.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Photo: David Arnal</span></i></td></tr></tbody></table><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i style="text-align: left;"></i></div><i>Lembra-te que há um querer doloroso </i><div><i>E de fastio a que chamam de amor. </i></div><div><i>E outro de tulipas e de espelhos </i></div><div><i>Licencioso, indigno, a que chamam desejo. </i></div><div><i>Há o caminhar um descaminho, um arrastar-se </i></div><div><i>Em direção aos ventos, aos açoites </i></div><div><i>E um único extraordinário turbilhão. </i></div><div><i>Porque me queres sempre nos espelhos </i></div><div><i>Naquele descaminhar, no pó dos impossíveis </i></div><div><i>Se só me quero viva nas tuas veias? </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>Hilda Hilst</i></div>RAMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02484212474176579579noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13671645.post-82113820909969884532024-03-16T01:26:00.001+00:002024-03-16T14:24:21.988+00:00(inter)connections...<div><i>i’m confident that the absolute dregs of possibility for this society, </i></div><div><i>the sugary coffee mound at the bottom of this cup, </i></div><div><i>our last best hope that when our little bit of assigned plasma implodes </i></div><div><i>it won’t go down as a green mark in the cosmic ledger, </i></div><div><i>lies in the moment when you say hello to a bus driver </i></div><div><i>and they say it back -</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>when someone holds the door open for you </i></div><div><i>and you do a little jog to meet them where they are -</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>walking my dog, i used to see this older man </i></div><div><i>and whenever I said good morning, </i></div><div><i>he replied "GREAT morning" -</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>in fact, all the creative ways our people greet each other </i></div><div><i>may be the icing on this flaming trash cake hurtling through the ether. </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>when the clerk says </i>how are you<i> </i></div><div><i>and I say "i’m blessed and highly favored"</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>i mean my toes have met sand, and wiggled in it, a lot. </i></div><div><i>i mean i have laughed until i choked and a friend slapped my back. </i></div><div><i>i mean my niece wrote me a note: ‘you are so smart + intellajet’ </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>i mean when we do go careening into the sun, </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>i’ll miss crossing guards ushering the grown folks too, like ducklings </i></div><div><i>and the lifeguards at the community pool and </i></div><div><i>men who yelled out the window that they’d fix the dent in my car, </i></div><div><i>right now! it’d just take a second -</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>and actually everyone who tried to keep me alive, keep me afloat, </i></div><div><i>and if not unblemished, suitably repaired. </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>but I won’t feel too sad about it, </i></div><div><i>becoming a star</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>Eve L. Ewing </i></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>
<iframe allow="autoplay" frameborder="no" height="300" scrolling="no" src="https://w.soundcloud.com/player/?url=https%3A//api.soundcloud.com/tracks/1776439014&color=%23ff5500&auto_play=true&hide_related=false&show_comments=true&show_user=true&show_reposts=false&show_teaser=true&visual=true" width="100%"></iframe><div style="color: #cccccc; font-family: Interstate, "Lucida Grande", "Lucida Sans Unicode", "Lucida Sans", Garuda, Verdana, Tahoma, sans-serif; font-size: 10px; font-weight: 100; line-break: anywhere; overflow: hidden; text-overflow: ellipsis; white-space: nowrap; word-break: normal;"><a href="https://soundcloud.com/rui-amaral-mendes" style="color: #cccccc; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank" title="RAM">RAM</a> · <a href="https://soundcloud.com/rui-amaral-mendes/eve-l-ewing-escathology" style="color: #cccccc; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank" title="Eve L. Ewing - eschatology">Eve L. Ewing - eschatology</a></div>RAMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02484212474176579579noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13671645.post-51355939611954563672024-03-15T01:21:00.002+00:002024-03-15T03:11:04.497+00:00skin...<i>
Skin remembers how long the years grow</i><div><i>when skin is not touched, a gray tunnel </i></div><div><i>of singleness, feather lost from the tail </i></div><div><i>of a bird, swirling onto a step, </i></div><div><i>swept away by someone who never saw </i></div><div><i>it was a feather. Skin ate, walked, </i></div><div><i>slept by itself, knew how to raise a </i></div><div><i>see-you-later hand. But skin felt </i></div><div><i>it was never seen, never known as </i></div><div><i>a land on the map, nose like a city, </i></div><div><i>hip like a city, gleaming dome of the mosque </i></div><div><i>and the hundred corridors of cinnamon and rope. </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>Skin had hope, that's what skin does. </i></div><div><i>Heals over the scarred place, makes a road. </i></div><div><i>Love means you breathe in two countries. </i></div><div><i>And skin remembers - silk, spiny grass, </i></div><div><i>deep in the pocket that is skin's secret own. </i></div><div><i>Even now, when skin is not alone, </i></div><div><i>it remembers being alone and thanks something larger </i></div><div><i>that there are travelers, that people go places </i></div><div><i>larger than themselves. </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>Naomi Shihab Nye</i></div>RAMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02484212474176579579noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13671645.post-47604386753545568762024-03-14T01:04:00.000+00:002024-03-14T01:04:00.253+00:00confia.<i>Nada a fazer, amor, eu sou do bando </i><div><i>Impermanente das aves friorentas; </i></div><div><i>E nos galhos dos anos desbotando </i></div><div><i>Já as folhas me ofuscam macilentas; </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>E vou com as andorinhas. Até quando? </i></div><div><i>À vida breve não perguntes: cruentas </i></div><div><i>Rugas me humilham. Não mais em estilo brando </i></div><div><i>Ave estroina serei em mãos sedentas. </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>Pensa-me eterna que o eterno gera </i></div><div><i>Quem na amada o conjura. Além, mais alto, </i></div><div><i>Em ileso beiral, aí me espera: </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>Andorinha indemne ao sobressalto </i></div><div><i>Do tempo, núncia de perene primavera. </i></div><div><i>Confia. Eu sou romântica. Não falto.</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>Natália Correia</i></div>RAMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02484212474176579579noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13671645.post-68959265447360143032024-03-13T01:19:00.001+00:002024-03-13T05:42:56.629+00:00enduring...<i>I thank all who have loved me in their hearts, </i><div><i>With thanks and love from mine. Deep thanks to all </i></div><div><i>Who paused a little near the prison-wall </i></div><div><i>To hear my music in its louder parts </i></div><div><i>Ere they went onward, each one to the mart's </i></div><div><i>Or temple's occupation, beyond call. </i></div><div><i>But thou, who, in my voice's sink and fall </i></div><div><i>When the sob took it, thy divinest Art's </i></div><div><i>Own instrument didst drop down at thy foot </i></div><div><i>To hearken what I said between my tears...</i></div><div><i>Instruct me how to thank thee! Oh, to shoot </i></div><div><i>My soul's full meaning into future years, </i></div><div><i>That they should lend it utterance, and salute </i></div><div><i>Love that endures, from Life that disappears!</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>Elizabeth Barrett Browning</i></div>RAMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02484212474176579579noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13671645.post-4428561454875881952024-03-12T01:36:00.001+00:002024-03-12T05:38:46.973+00:00contradições...<i>Saibam quantos meus versos não ignoram </i><div><i>Que se os meus danos para fora riem, </i></div><div><i>Minhas risadas para dentro choram. </i></div><div><i>Ah, com engenhos meus não se extasiem </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>Que essas magias em ermos de alma moram. </i></div><div><i>Antes de dores e gostos desconfiem </i></div><div><i>Pois menos sofro nas mágoas que deploram </i></div><div><i>Que no amargor dos lábios que sorriem. </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>Mas se é razão ser eu a que pareça, </i></div><div><i>De mim mais vos direi quando emudeça </i></div><div><i>E a vós menos me mostro se atrevida. </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>Como não há-de meu astro singular </i></div><div><i>Com alegrias e lágrimas jogar </i></div><div><i>Se nos meus versos jogo a minha vida?</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>Natália Correia</i></div>RAMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02484212474176579579noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13671645.post-18641350072799090862024-03-11T01:08:00.000+00:002024-03-11T06:12:26.414+00:00silenciosamente...<i>Talvez ternura não seja a palavra precisa </i><div><i>para esta certa maneira compartida </i></div><div><i>de ficar em silêncio ante a beleza exacta,</i></div><div><i>ou de falar eu pouco e de seres tu a própria</i></div><div><i>beleza, seu emblema, embora próxima e pulsando.</i></div><div><i>E é também um destino unânime que voltem</i></div><div><i>a idêntico silêncio - quando chegar a hora</i></div><div><i>das tréguas indizíveis - minha palavra e tua garra.</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>María Victoria Atencia</i></div>RAMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02484212474176579579noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13671645.post-20483302314907951242024-03-09T23:45:00.001+00:002024-03-10T07:14:49.852+00:00amanheço...<i>Tão só em prosseguir busquei sentido </i><div><i>e o caminho é sem regresso a quem caminha </i></div><div><i>por nenhum instinto além reconhecido. </i></div><div><i>Espaço meu ou de loucura, era sozinha. </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>Vinha de não sei onde, lar perdido </i></div><div><i>de mim mesma, ou infância. Vinha </i></div><div><i>quando apenas vi que recobrara o ido </i></div><div><i>antigo estar em tal estância, minha. </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>E tudo que abandonei, o a que deu termo </i></div><div><i>muda solidão pairando em grito ermo, </i></div><div><i>largo deserto visto em falso medo, </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>tudo que abandonei, faz companhia. </i></div><div><i>Enquanto, indo, um ocaso brando me assistia </i></div><div><i>eis que amanheço em mim, volto a ser cedo!</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>Maria Ângela Alvim</i></div>RAMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02484212474176579579noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13671645.post-28782912199233039902024-03-09T01:21:00.001+00:002024-03-09T02:23:57.724+00:00creatures...<i>Arching under the night sky inky</i><div><i>with black expansiveness, we point</i></div><div><i>to the planets we know, we</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>pin quick wishes on stars. From earth,</i></div><div><i>we read the sky as if it is an unerring book</i></div><div><i>of the universe, expert and evident.</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>Still, there are mysteries below our sky:</i></div><div><i>the whale song, the songbird singing</i></div><div><i>its call in the bough of a wind-shaken tree.</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>We are creatures of constant awe,</i></div><div><i>curious at beauty, at leaf and blossom,</i></div><div><i>at grief and pleasure, sun and shadow.</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>And it is not darkness that unites us,</i></div><div><i>not the cold distance of space, but</i></div><div><i>the offering of water, each drop of rain,</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>each rivulet, each pulse, each vein.</i></div><div><i>O second moon, we, too, are made</i></div><div><i>of water, of vast and beckoning seas.</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>We, too, are made of wonders, of great</i></div><div><i>and ordinary loves, of small invisible worlds, </i></div><div><i>of a need to call out through the dark.</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>Ada Limón</i></div>RAMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02484212474176579579noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13671645.post-34382130333654499382024-03-08T01:14:00.004+00:002024-03-08T03:25:03.515+00:00bound(less)...<i>There are so many roots to the tree of anger </i><div><i>that sometimes the branches shatter </i></div><div><i>before they bear. </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>Sitting in Nedicks </i></div><div><i>the women rally before they march </i></div><div><i>discussing the problematic girls </i></div><div><i>they hire to make them free. </i></div><div><i>An almost white counterman passes </i></div><div><i>a waiting brother to serve them first </i></div><div><i>and the ladies neither notice nor reject </i></div><div><i>the slighter pleasures of their slavery.</i></div><div><i>But I who am bound by my mirror </i></div><div><i>as well as my bed </i></div><div><i>see causes in colour </i></div><div><i>as well as sex </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>and sit here wondering </i></div><div><i>which me will survive </i></div><div><i>all these liberations.
</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>Audre Lorde </i></div>RAMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02484212474176579579noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13671645.post-63505267717826839162024-03-07T01:02:00.003+00:002024-03-07T01:02:00.130+00:00touch.from.a.distance.<i>
Up until this sore minute, you could turn the key, pivot away. </i><div><i>But mine is the only medicine now </i></div><div><i>wherever you go or follow. </i></div><div><i>The past is so far away, but it flickers, </i></div><div><i>then cleaves the night. The bones </i></div><div><i>of the past splinter between our teeth. </i></div><div><i>This is our life, love. Why did I think </i></div><div><i>it would be anything less than too much </i></div><div><i>of everything? I know you remember that cheap motel </i></div><div><i>on the coast where we drank red wine, </i></div><div><i>the sea flashing its gold scales as sun </i></div><div><i>soaked our skin. You said, This must be </i></div><div><i>what people mean when they say </i></div><div><i>I could die now. Now </i></div><div><i>we’re so much closer </i></div><div><i>to death than we were then. Who isn’t crushed, </i></div><div><i>stubbed out beneath a clumsy heel? </i></div><div><i>Who hasn’t stood at the open window, </i></div><div><i>sleepless, for the solace of the damp air? </i></div><div><i>I had to get old to carry both buckets </i></div><div><i>yoked on my shoulders. Sweet </i></div><div><i>and bitter waters I drink from. </i></div><div><i>Let me know you, ox you. </i></div><div><i>I want your scent in my hair. </i></div><div><i>I want your jokes. </i></div><div><i>Hang your kisses on all my branches, please. </i></div><div><i>Sink your fingers into the darkness of my fur. </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>Ellen Bass</i></div>RAMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02484212474176579579noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13671645.post-23842485254832621012024-03-06T01:25:00.000+00:002024-03-06T04:57:45.511+00:00pedido...<i>Tu pedes-me a noção de ser concreta </i><div><i>num sorriso num gesto no que abstrai </i></div><div><i>a minha exactidão em estar repleta </i></div><div><i>do que mais fica quando de mim vai. </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>Tu pedes-me uma parcela de certeza </i></div><div><i>um desmentido do meu ser virtual </i></div><div><i>livre no resultado de pureza </i></div><div><i>da soma do meu bem e do meu mal. </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>Deixa-me assim ficar. E tu comigo </i></div><div><i>sem tempo na viagem de entender </i></div><div><i>o que persigo quando te persigo. </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>Deixa-me assim ficar no que consente </i></div><div><i>a minha alma no gosto de reter-te </i></div><div><i>essencial. Onde quer que te invente.</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>Natália Correia</i></div>RAMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02484212474176579579noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13671645.post-72893632240714569552024-03-05T01:00:00.003+00:002024-03-05T01:00:24.981+00:00meaning(ful)...<i>I now replace desire </i><div><i>with meaning. </i></div><div><i>Instead of saying, </i>I want you<i>, I say, </i></div><div>there is meaning between us<i>. </i></div><div><i>Meaning can swim, has taken lessons from the river </i></div><div><i>of itself. Desire is air. One puncture </i></div><div><i>above a black lake and she lies flat. </i></div><div><i>I now replace intensity with meaning. </i></div><div><i>One is a black hole of boundless appetite, a false womb, </i></div><div><i>another is a sentence. </i></div><div><i>My therapist says children need a “father” for language </i></div><div><i>and a “mother” for everything else. </i></div><div><i>She doesn’t get that it’s all language. There is no </i>else<i>. </i></div><div>Else<i> is a fiction of life, and a fact of death. </i></div><div><i>That night, we don’t touch. </i></div><div><i>We ruin nothing. </i></div><div><i>We get bagels in the morning before you leave on a train, </i></div><div><i>and I smoke a skinny cigarette and think </i></div><div><i>I look glam, like an Italian diva. </i></div><div><i>You make a joke at my expense, which is not a joke, really, </i></div><div><i>but a way to say </i>I know you<i>. </i></div><div><i>I don’t feed on you. Instead, I watch you </i></div><div><i>like a faraway tree. </i></div><div><i>Desire loves the </i>what if<i>, the </i>if only<i>, the </i>maybe in another lifetime<i>. </i></div><div><i>She loves a parallel universe. Or seven. </i></div><div><i>Meaning knows its minerals, </i></div><div><i>knows which volcanic magma belongs </i></div><div><i>to which volcanic fleet. </i></div><div><i>Knows the earth has parents. That a person is raised. </i></div><div><i>It’s the real flirtation, to say, you are not a meal. </i></div><div><i>To say, I want you </i></div><div><i>to last.</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>Megan Fernandes </i></div>RAMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02484212474176579579noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13671645.post-24800141650573765062024-03-04T01:33:00.000+00:002024-03-04T02:39:24.566+00:00daughters...<i>teach your daughters</i><div><i>to sing the song backwards</i></div><div><i>counterclockwise</i></div><div><i>wind in their mouths</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>teach them early</i></div><div><i>to breathe in the dust</i></div><div><i>swirl it into their lungs</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>teach your children</i></div><div><i>that the opposite of a secret</i></div><div><i>is a drink</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>teach them</i></div><div><i>by example</i></div><div><i>to drink air</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>*</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>send your daughters</i></div><div><i>where the earth is soft</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>they’ll come back</i></div><div><i>and tell you life is hard</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>send your daughters</i></div><div><i>off the planet now</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>show them how</i></div><div><i>to do their dirt</i></div><div><i>in space</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>send your daughters</i></div><div><i>to the sky</i></div><div><i>for clay</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>practiced as they are</i></div><div><i>at leaving earth</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>teach your daughters</i></div><div><i>that the only world they’ll have</i></div><div><i>will be the one they shape</i></div><div><i>by hand</i></div><div><i>and foot</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>*</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>train your daughters</i></div><div><i>how to dance in mud</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>cleanse them</i></div><div><i>of the myth</i></div><div><i>of solid ground</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>show them that</i></div><div><i>the mark they make</i></div><div><i>is evidence of body</i></div><div><i>not of word</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>is evidence of soil</i></div><div><i>and not of breath</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>teach your daughters</i></div><div><i>how to outrun death</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>Alexis Pauline Gumbs</i></div>RAMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02484212474176579579noreply@blogger.com0