não sei se me apetece o recolher obrigatório, o descer das minhas saias abaixo do joelho e o lenço preto a tapar-me os cabelos de igual cor, tão longos que, esticados, me tocam no fundo das costas onde começam os indícios de maior beleza, segundo cedo descobri pelo António, o meu primeiro e único amor até ontem quando abri os olhos acordada e percebi que o amor não precisa de ser impingido, muito menos fingido.
sete palavras. sete anos. sete longos anos. sete pequenos acontecimentos. sete nadas. mais sete quase tudo. um ciclo que me fazem crer necessário à renovação da pele. ao crescimento e ao momento, àquele momento em que no centro do ponto mais central e exposto da cidade se dá o renascimento recalcado na pureza e espontaneidade dos gestos e da dor da metamorfose necessária.
Seven Words
These seven words I say to you, one by one I love you and you have to know
If I could change how I'm insane If I could learn to leave my troubles behind It's starting to hurt and I know you moved on Telling everyone how I done you so wrong
Cat scratch a beast My words that made you bleed Now I face tomorrow Now I face tomorrow
In time we'll both be free from this ball and chain Hanging on to things I want you mostly in the morning When my soul is weak from dreaming
When the dust has cleared And you forget that I'm here Hanging on I've been hanging
Who had the last word I'm telling you first Who had the last word I'm telling you first
These seven words are no longer mine Who am I but a stranger who took you down It's starting to burn and I wanna go home Only home I've known Lost in the storm
It had to be seven words to set us free Now I face tomorrow Now I face tomorrow Now I face tomorrow
quinta-feira, 16 de março de 2017
abracei-te Veneza, tão cedo, tão nova e tão cheia de planos.
sonhei abraçar-te muitas vezes, tantas que à sorte de querer apontar cada uma delas me perderia decerto nessa contagem como me perdi, orgulhosamente embriagada de tanta beleza, nas ruas e nos canais que ávida de paixão penetrei.
abracei-te solteira, Veneza, abracei-te casada, abraçar-te-ei em qualquer estado civil que me conheça. abraçar-te-ei, sei mesmo, já morta, morta de vida pelas saudades definhadoras do meu corpo rasgado à falta do ar que o grito que me sai em cada sonho, sabe que te chamo noite dentro, questionando-me lavada em águas turvas pela escuridão negra da noite na aflição de pensamento se não te terei perdido para sempre quando te abandonei, deixando para trás daquele riva boat, todo o amor que encontrei no teu corpo em forma de ilha.
That's all we ever mean I forgive you Everything Meet me at the railroad bar About 7 o'clock We joke while the sun goes down Watch the lovers Leaving town
This is for lovers Running away This is for lovers Running away Just for today
I'm running away with you From yesterday's news Let's leave it all behind Help me back to my mind I've paid the penalty Your the jailer rattling the key But the key is mine I keep a spare one every time
This is for lovers Running away This is for lovers Running away
não tentarei perceber porque me mantive tanto tempo sentada, imóvel, olhos postos no horizonte de um mar imenso, a ver-te galgar as ondas com a destreza que me soava tão fácil, igual às subidas às mais altas escarpas das praias a sul para vermos e ouvirmos as gaivotas de perto. esperei-te assim virada de frente para aquele ondulado azul de espuma, a inspirar o cheiro a maresia que as tuas manobras "cutback" soltavam com inebriante intensidade.
Apaixonei-me por ti há seis anos, n'Os Correios, uma garrafa de wisky por capítulo, uma genialidade escrita a que não estava habituada e chegando o verão deste ano zango-me contigo assumidamente não nas corridas de cavalos, que já me enfastiavam mas nas histórias que desfiaste sobre as mulheres que entornavas tão depressa como esse whisky que sempre as acompanhava.
e hoje, cai-me no colo este poema reconciliatório a confirmar o que há seis anos o desconhecido de calças pretas me disse ao ver-me retirar da prateleira Os Correios: "se puder, leia-o só em inglês".
Your, A.L.
"An almost made up poem", by Charles Bukowski I see you drinking at a fountain with tiny blue hands, no, your hands are not tiny they are small, and the fountain is in France where you wrote me that last letter and I answered and never heard from you again. you used to write insane poems about ANGELS AND GOD, all in upper case, and you knew famous artists and most of them were your lovers, and I wrote back, it’ all right, go ahead, enter their lives, I’ not jealous because we’ never met. we got close once in New Orleans, one half block, but never met, never touched. so you went with the famous and wrote about the famous, and, of course, what you found out is that the famous are worried about their fame –– not the beautiful young girl in bed with them, who gives them that, and then awakens in the morning to write upper case poems about ANGELS AND GOD. we know God is dead, they’ told us, but listening to you I wasn’ sure. maybe it was the upper case. you were one of the best female poets and I told the publishers, editors, “ her, print her, she’ mad but she’ magic. there’ no lie in her fire.” I loved you like a man loves a woman he never touches, only writes to, keeps little photographs of. I would have loved you more if I had sat in a small room rolling a cigarette and listened to you piss in the bathroom, but that didn’ happen. your letters got sadder. your lovers betrayed you. kid, I wrote back, all lovers betray. it didn’ help. you said you had a crying bench and it was by a bridge and the bridge was over a river and you sat on the crying bench every night and wept for the lovers who had hurt and forgotten you. I wrote back but never heard again. a friend wrote me of your suicide 3 or 4 months after it happened. if I had met you I would probably have been unfair to you or you to me. it was best like this. Charles Bukowski
