Lady Lazarus - Sylvia Plath

I have done it again.
One year in every ten
I manage it——

A sort of walking miracle, my skin
Bright as a Nazi lampshade,
My right foot

A paperweight,
My face a featureless, fine
Jew linen.

Peel off the napkin
O my enemy.
Do I terrify?——

The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth?
The sour breath
Will vanish in a day.

Soon, soon the flesh
The grave cave ate will be
At home on me

And I a smiling woman.
I am only thirty.
And like the cat I have nine times to die.

This is Number Three.
What a trash
To annihilate each decade.

What a million filaments.
The peanut-crunching crowd
Shoves in to see

Them unwrap me hand and foot——
The big strip tease.
Gentlemen, ladies

These are my hands
My knees.
I may be skin and bone,

Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.
The first time it happened I was ten.
It was an accident.

The second time I meant
To last it out and not come back at all.
I rocked shut

As a seashell.
They had to call and call
And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.

Dying
Is an art, like everything else.
I do it exceptionally well.

I do it so it feels like hell.
I do it so it feels real.
I guess you could say I’ve a call.

It’s easy enough to do it in a cell.
It’s easy enough to do it and stay put.
It’s the theatrical

Comeback in broad day
To the same place, the same face, the same brute
Amused shout:

‘A miracle!’
That knocks me out.
There is a charge

For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge
For the hearing of my heart——
It really goes.

And there is a charge, a very large charge
For a word or a touch
Or a bit of blood

Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.
So, so, Herr Doktor.
So, Herr Enemy.

I am your opus,
I am your valuable,
The pure gold baby

That melts to a shriek.
I turn and burn.
Do not think I underestimate your great concern.

Ash, ash—
You poke and stir.
Flesh, bone, there is nothing there——

A cake of soap,
A wedding ring,
A gold filling.

Herr God, Herr Lucifer
Beware
Beware.

Out of the ash
I rise with my red hair
And I eat men like air.

Daddy - Sylvia Plath

You do not do, you do not do
Any more, black shoe
In which I have lived like a foot
For thirty years, poor and white,
Barely daring to breathe or Achoo.

Daddy, I have had to kill you.
You died before I had time——
Marble-heavy, a bag full of God,
Ghastly statue with one gray toe
Big as a Frisco seal

And a head in the freakish Atlantic
Where it pours bean green over blue
In the waters off beautiful Nauset.
I used to pray to recover you.
Ach, du.

In the German tongue, in the Polish town
Scraped flat by the roller
Of wars, wars, wars.
But the name of the town is common.
My Polack friend

Says there are a dozen or two.
So I never could tell where you
Put your foot, your root,
I never could talk to you.
The tongue stuck in my jaw.

It stuck in a barb wire snare.
Ich, ich, ich, ich,
I could hardly speak.
I thought every German was you.
And the language obscene

An engine, an engine
Chuffing me off like a Jew.
A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen.
I began to talk like a Jew.
I think I may well be a Jew.

The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna
Are not very pure or true.
With my gipsy ancestress and my weird luck
And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack
I may be a bit of a Jew.

I have always been scared of you,
With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo.
And your neat mustache
And your Aryan eye, bright blue.
Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You——

Not God but a swastika
So black no sky could squeak through.
Every woman adores a Fascist,
The boot in the face, the brute
Brute heart of a brute like you.

You stand at the blackboard, daddy,
In the picture I have of you,
A cleft in your chin instead of your foot
But no less a devil for that, no not
Any less the black man who

Bit my pretty red heart in two.
I was ten when they buried you.
At twenty I tried to die
And get back, back, back to you.
I thought even the bones would do.

But they pulled me out of the sack,
And they stuck me together with glue.
And then I knew what to do.
I made a model of you,
A man in black with a Meinkampf look

And a love of the rack and the screw.
And I said I do, I do.
So daddy, I’m finally through.
The black telephone’s off at the root,
The voices just can’t worm through.

If I’ve killed one man, I’ve killed two——
The vampire who said he was you
And drank my blood for a year,
Seven years, if you want to know.
Daddy, you can lie back now.

There’s a stake in your fat black heart
And the villagers never liked you.
They are dancing and stamping on you.
They always knew it was you.
Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I’m through.

The Way It Is - Mark Strand

The world is ugly 

And the people are sad. 

—Wallace Stevens 

I lie in bed. 

I toss all night 

in the cold unruffled deep 

of my sheets and cannot sleep. 

My neighbor marches in his room, 

wearing the sleek 

mask of a hawk with a large beek. 

He stands by the window. A violet plume 

rises from his helmet's dome. 

The moon's light 

spills over him like milk and the wind rinses the white 

glass bowls of his eyes. 

His helmet in a shopping bag, 

he sits in the park, waving a small American flag. 

He cannot be heard as he moves 

behind trees and hedges, 

always at the frayed edges 

of town, pulling a gun on someone like me. I crouch 

under the kitchen table, telling myself, 

I am a dog, who would kill a dog? 

My neighbor's wife comes home. 

She walks into the living room, 

takes off her clothes, her hair falls down her back. 

She seems to wade 

through long flat rivers of shade. 

The soles of her feet are black. 

She kisses her husband's neck 

and puts her hands inside his pants. 

My neighbors dance. 

They roll on the floor, his tongue

is in her ear, his lungs 

reek with the swill and weather of hell. 

Out on the street people are lying down 

with their knees in the air, tears 

fill their eyes, ashes 

enter their ears. 

Their clothes are torn 

from their backs. Their faces are worn. 

Horsemen are riding around them, telling them why 

they should die. 

My neighbor's wife calls to me, her mouth is pressed 

against the wall behind my bed. 

She says, "My husband's dead." 

I turn over on my side, 

hoping she has not lied. 

The walls and ceiling of my room are gray— 

the moon's color through the windows of a laundromat. 

I close my eyes. 

I see myself float 

on the dead sea of my bed, falling away, 

calling for help, but the vague scream 

sticks in my throat. 

I see myself in the park 

on horseback, surrounded by dark 

leading the armies of peace. 

The iron legs of the horse do not bend. 

I drop the reins. Where will the turmoil end? 

Fleets of taxis stall 

in the fog, passengers fall 

asleep. Gas pours 

from a tri-colored stack. 

Locking their doors, 

people from offices huddle together, 

telling the same story over and over. 

Everyone who has sold himself wants to buy himself back. 

Nothing is done. The night 

eats into their limbs 

like a blight. 

Everything dims. 

The future is not what it used to be. 

The graves are ready. The dead 

shall inherit the dead.

(Vídeo)

The Kiss - Anne Sexton

My mouth blooms like a cut.I've been wronged all year, tedious
nights, nothing but rough elbows in them
and delicate boxes of Kleenex calling crybaby
crybaby , you fool!

Before today my body was useless.
Now it's tearing at its square corners.
It's tearing old Mary's garments off, knot by knot
and see — Now it's shot full of these electric bolts.
Zing! A resurrection!

Once it was a boat, quite wooden
and with no business, no salt water under it
and in need of some paint. It was no more
than a group of boards. But you hoisted her, rigged her.
She's been elected.

My nerves are turned on. I hear them like
musical instruments. Where there was silence
the drums, the strings are incurably playing. You did this.
Pure genius at work. Darling, the composer has stepped
into fire.

I cannot live with You (640) - Emily Dickinson

I cannot live with You —
It would be Life —
And Life is over there —
Behind the Shelf

The Sexton keeps the Key to —
Putting up
Our Life — His Porcelain —
Like a Cup —

Discarded of the Housewife —
Quaint — or Broke —
A newer Sevres pleases —
Old Ones crack —

I could not die — with You —
For One must wait
To shut the Other's Gaze down —
You — could not —

And I — Could I stand by
And see You — freeze —
Without my Right of Frost —
Death's privilege?

Nor could I rise — with You —
Because Your Face
Would put out Jesus' —
That New Grace

Glow plain — and foreign
On my homesick Eye —
Except that You than He
Shone closer by —


They'd judge Us — How —
For You — served Heaven — You know,
Or sought to —
I could not —

Because You saturated Sight —
And I had no more Eyes
For sordid excellence
As Paradise

And were You lost, I would be —
Though My Name
Rang loudest
On the Heavenly fame —

And were You — saved —
And I — condemned to be
Where You were not —
That self — were Hell to Me —

So We must meet apart —
You there — I — here —
With just the Door ajar
That Oceans are — and Prayer —
And that White Sustenance —
Despair —

dor - Ledusha Spinardi

só quem não cabe

sabe

(Lua na jaula, 2018)

Naufrágio - Ana Martins Marques

De dentro da noite

a cidade

expele automóveis

sirenes cães inquietos

galos prematuros

mais longe

cheio de plantas que são pedras

que são flores que são bichos

o mar bate

contra a praia

em torno da cama

como de um navio partido

nossas roupas nossos cigarros

nossos livros afogam-se

a seco

(Da arte das armadilhas, 2011)

For Tess - Raymond Carver

Out on the Strait the water is whitecapping

As they say here. It’s rough and I’m glad
I’m not out. Glad I fished all day
on Morse Creek, casting a red Daredevil back
and forth. I didn’t catch anything. No bites
even, not one. But it was okay. It was fine!
I carried your dad’s pocketknife and was followed

for awhile by a dog its owner called Dixie.
At times I felt so happy I had to quit
fishing. Once I lay on the bank with my eyes closed,
listening to the sound the water made,
and to the wind in the tops of the trees. The same wind
that blows out on the Strait, but a different wind, too.
For awhile I even let myself imagine that I had died –
and that was all right, at least for a couple
of minutes, until it really sank in: Dead.
As I was laying there with my eyes closed,
just after I’d imagined what it might be like
if in fact I never got up again, I thought of you.
I opened my eyes then and got right up
and went back to being happy again
I’m grateful to you, you see. I wanted to tell you.

Falência - Raymond Carver

Vinte e oito anos, a barriga peluda saindo

por baixo da camiseta (isenta)

estou aqui deitado de lado

no sofá (isento)

e ouço o som estranho e agradável

da voz (também isenta) de minha mulher.

Nós somos novatos

nestes pequenos prazeres.

Perdão (rodo à Corte)

por termos sido imprudentes.

Hoje, meu coração, como a porta da frente,

está aberto pela primeira vez em meses.

(Esta vida, trad. Cide Piquet, 2017)

Pleno agosto - Fabrício Corsaletti

meus óculos de sol

minha cara de lua

— tem gente que tem uma máscara

tem gente que tem duas

minha avó usava blush

por cima da verruga

eu tive uma namorada

que tirava a roupa

e não ficava nua

o bigode cresce

ao contrário da peruca

minha amiga Beth Vargas

só gosta de carne crua

a poesia impede a vida

de virar literatura

o mal nasce com a pessoa

ou se aprende na rua

o mal nasce com a pessoa

a bondade custa

— meus óculos de sol guardados

e minha cara de chuva

(Esquimó, 2010)

O que eu quero de você - Fabrício Corsaletti

não quero voltar para casa

no seu abraço

não busco o que perdi

nunca pensei fazê-la cúmplice

da minha solidão

nem me passou pela cabeça

jogar sujo

com você —

você é o vento quente

que me acompanha

o enigma que não precisa ser decifrado —

de você eu quero apenas

um filhote de lobo

um filhote de lobo

para morder minha mão direita

quando eu estiver no escuro

depois que o amor acabar

(Esquimó, 2010)

Me sinto em casa - Ana Guadalupe

me mudei pela

sexta vez em seis anos

posso dizer com certeza

que me sinto em casa

posso não ter casa

mas tenho calçados

documentos com nome

são pedaços de casa

paredes se despedaçam

alguém se despede rápido

janelas despencam na brisa

eu me despeço sem graça

posso dizer

que sem sombra de dúvida

me sinto em casa

(Preocupações, 2019)

Lagarta na banana - Ana Guadalupe

quantas frutas serão por mim analisadas

com atenção em busca de lagartas

até o fim da vida

lembrando aí que esqueci de levar os óculos ao mercado

deve ser por isso também a tontura

cada volta na prateleira

é um zumbido novo nas orelhas

a vontade mista de ficar e ir embora

sei comprar ovos, brócolis, farinha

ainda não sei levar companhia

ir ao mercado sem ninguém é mais rápido

não é preciso esperar outra pessoa

hipnotizada olhando temperos ou chinelos

enquanto pães de centeio são por mim esmagados

enquanto encontro a lagarta que vive na banana

e jogo longe o cacho

(Preocupações, 2019)

What Work Is - Philip Levine

We stand in the rain in a long line
waiting at Ford Highland Park. For work.
You know what work is—if you’re
old enough to read this you know what
work is, although you may not do it.
Forget you. This is about waiting,
shifting from one foot to another.
Feeling the light rain falling like mist
into your hair, blurring your vision
until you think you see your own brother
ahead of you, maybe ten places.
You rub your glasses with your fingers,
and of course it’s someone else’s brother,
narrower across the shoulders than
yours but with the same sad slouch, the grin
that does not hide the stubbornness,
the sad refusal to give in to
rain, to the hours of wasted waiting,
to the knowledge that somewhere ahead
a man is waiting who will say, “No,
we’re not hiring today,” for any
reason he wants. You love your brother,
now suddenly you can hardly stand
the love flooding you for your brother,
who’s not beside you or behind or
ahead because he’s home trying to
sleep off a miserable night shift
at Cadillac so he can get up
before noon to study his German.
Works eight hours a night so he can sing
Wagner, the opera you hate most,
the worst music ever invented.
How long has it been since you told him
you loved him, held his wide shoulders,
opened your eyes wide and said those words,
and maybe kissed his cheek? You’ve never
done something so simple, so obvious,
not because you’re too young or too dumb,
not because you’re jealous or even mean
or incapable of crying in
the presence of another man, no,
just because you don’t know what work is.

(What Work Is, 1992)

Plaudite, amici - Paulo Henriques Britto

Seria muito bom saber sair de cena

sem fazer cenas, sem roubar a cena, sem

atropelar sequer um figurante. Pena

que nessas horas se improvisa, e que ninguém

respeita nada quando foge do roteiro.

Mesmo os maiores canastrões têm seu momento

de glória, de prima-donismo o mais rasteiro

e o mais justificável. Pois na vida há tempo

mesmo pras coisas mais ridículas, vexames

impensáveis, mas perfeitamente vivíveis,

derramamentos nem um pouco cabralinos

mas necessários. (Quem não gostar, que reclame

a se deus predileto — ex machina, inclusive —

um fim de comédia um pouco menos indigno.)

(Nenhum mistério, 2018)

Nenhuma arte (IV) - Paulo Henriques Britto

IV

Uma vida inteira passada

dentro dos confins de um corpo

junto ao qual vem atrelada

a consciência, peso morto

que acusa o golpe sofrido

e cochicha ao pé do ouvido

depois que o fato se deu:

nada que te pertence é teu.

Único antídoto do nada

entre as peçonhas da vida,

coisa por sorte encontrada

e por desgraça perdida,

amor lega, em sua ausência,

um lembrete à consciência

(se ela por acaso esqueceu):

nada que te pertence é teu.

Princípio? Tudo é contingente.

Fim? Toda luz termina em breu.

Sentido? Quem quiser que invente,

quem não quiser se contente

com este presente besta

que, quando acabou a festa,

a vida avara lhe deu:

nada que te pertence é teu.

(Nenhum mistério, 2018)

A Voice From I Don't Know Where - Mary Oliver

It seems you love this world very much.
    “Yes, I said. “This beautiful world.”

And you don’t mind the mind, that keeps you
    busy all the time with its dark and bright wondering?
    “No, I’m quite used to it. Busy, busy,
    all the time.”

And you don’t mind living with those questions,
    I mean the hard ones, that no one can answer?
    “Actually, they’re the most interesting.”

And you have a person in your life whose hand
    you like to hold?
    “Yes, I do.”

It must surely, then, be very happy down there
    in your heart.
    “Yes,” I said. “It is.”

(Felicity, 2016)

XXXI - Mark Strand

Here we are in Labrador. I've always

Wanted to be here, especially with you,
In this cabin, with a fire blazing. You are

Wearing a Calvin Klein suit and I am in
My father's velvet smoking jacket. That's all.
Why? Because I am happy. And I am ready

For the first sign from you that we should
Get into bed. These moments of giddy anticipation
Are the happiest of my life. I wonder if we

Are not part of someone's prediction of what
The world could be at its very best, if we,
In this frigid landscape free of shopping

Opportunities, are where the world is headed?
Or maybe we are part of the record of what
Has already happened, and are a sign of the depths

To which the world sank? Your costly suit,
My shabby jacket, this cabin without indoor
Plumbing or decent stove or stereo or TV

May be no more than a joke in the final
Tally of accomplishments to be claimed
At some late date. Still, here we are

And they can't take that away from us,
And if they laugh, so what, we're here,
Happy in Labrador, dancing into the wee hours.

When I have fears that I may cease to be - John Keats

When I have fears that I may cease to be
Before my pen has gleaned my teeming brain,
Before high-pilèd books, in charactery,
Hold like rich garners the full ripened grain;
When I behold, upon the night’s starred face,
Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,
And think that I may never live to trace
Their shadows with the magic hand of chance;
And when I feel, fair creature of an hour,
That I shall never look upon thee more,
Never have relish in the faery power
Of unreflecting love—then on the shore
Of the wide world I stand alone, and think
Till love and fame to nothingness do sink.

I am happy living simply - Marina Tsvetaeva

I am happy living simply:
like a clock, or a calendar.
Worldly pilgrim, thin,
wise—as any creature. To know
the spirit is my beloved. To come to things—swift
God asks me—and friends do not.
as a ray of light, or a look.
To live as I write: spare—the way

(1919)

Keeping Things Whole - Mark Strand

In a field
I am the absence
of field.
This is
always the case.
Wherever I am
I am what is missing.

When I walk
I part the air
and always
the air moves in
to fill the spaces
where my body’s been.

We all have reasons
for moving.
I move
to keep things whole.

love is a place - e.e. cummings

love is a place

& through this place of
love move
(with brightness of peace)
all places

yes is a world
& in this world of
yes live
(skilfully curled)
all worlds

i like my body when it is with your - e.e. cummings

i like my body when it is with your

body. It is so quite new a thing.
Muscles better and nerves more.
i like your body. i like what it does,
i like its hows. i like to feel the spine
of your body and its bones,and the trembling
-firm-smooth ness and which i will
again and again and again
kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,
i like, slowly stroking the,shocking fuzz
of your electric furr,and what-is-it comes
over parting flesh….And eyes big love-crumbs,

and possibly i like the thrill

of under me you so quite new

On Death - John Keats

I.
Can death be sleep, when life is but a dream,
And scenes of bliss pass as a phantom by?
The transient pleasures as a vision seem,
And yet we think the greatest pain’s to die.

II.
How strange it is that man on earth should roam,
And lead a life of woe, but not forsake
His rugged path; nor dare he view alone
His future doom which is but to awake.

Something bright, then holes - Maggie Nelson

I used to do this, the self I was
used to do this

the selves I no longer am
nor understand.

Something bright, then holes
is how a girl, newly-sighted, once

described a hand. I reread
your letters, and remember

correctly: you wanted to eat
through me. Then fall asleep

with your tongue against
an organ, quiet enough

to hear it kick. Learn everything
there is to know

about loving someone
then walk away, coolly

I’m not ashamed
Love is large and monstrous

Never again will I be so blind, so ungenerous
O bright snatches of flesh, blue

and pink, then four dark furrows, four
funnels, leading into an infinite ditch

The heart, too, is porous;
I lost the water you poured into it

won’t you celebrate with me - Lucille Clifton

won't you celebrate with me
what i have shaped into
a kind of life? i had no model.
born in babylon
both nonwhite and woman
what did i see to be except myself?
i made it up
here on this bridge between
starshine and clay,
my one hand holding tight
my other hand; come celebrate
with me that everyday
something has tried to kill me
and has failed.

(Book of Light, 1993)

Ningún amor cabe en un cuerpo solamente - Eugenio Montejo

Ningún amor cabe en un cuerpo solamente,
aunque abarquen sus venas el tamaño del mundo;
siempre un deseo se queda fuera,
otro solloza pero falta.

Lo sabe el mar en su lamento solitario
y la tierra que busca los restos de su estatua;
no basta un solo cuerpo para albergar sus noches,
quedan estrellas fuera de la sangre.

Ningún amor cabe en un cuerpo solamente,
aunque el alma se aparte y ceda espacio
y el tiempo nos entregue la hora que retiene.
Dos manos no nos bastan para alcanzar la sombra;
dos ojos ven apenas pocas nubes
pero no saben dónde van, de dónde vienen,
qué país musical las une y las dispersa.
Ningún amor, ni el más huidizo, el más fugaz,
nace en un cuerpo que está solo;
ninguno cabe en el tamaño de su muerte.

(Terredad)

Frank O'Hara

now if you feel like you want to deal with
Tokyo
you've really got something to handle
it's like Times Square at midnight
you don't know where you're going
but you know

and then in Harbin I knew
how to behave it was glorious that
was love sneaking up on me through the snow
and I felt it was because of all
the postcards and the smiles and kisses and the grunts
that was love but I kept on traveling

So You Say - Mark Strand

It is all in the mind, you say, and has

nothing to do with happiness. The coming of cold,
the coming of heat, the mind has all the time in the world.
You take my arm and say something will happen,
something unusual for which we were always prepared,
like the sun arriving after a day in Asia,
like the moon departing after a night with us.

(The Late Hour, 1978)

may my heart always be open to little - e.e. cummings

may my heart always be open to little

birds who are the secrets of living
whatever they sing is better than to know
and if men should not hear them men are old

may my mind stroll about hungry
and fearless and thirsty and supple
and even if it’s sunday may i be wrong
for whenever men are right they are not young

and may myself do nothing usefully
and love yourself so more than truly
there’s never been quite such a fool who could fail
pulling all the sky over him with one smile

Recipe For Happiness Khaborovsk or Anyplace - Lawrence Ferlinghetti

 One grand boulevard with trees

with one grande cafe in sun

with strong black coffee in very small cups.

One not necessarily very beautiful

man or woman who loves you.

One fine day.

Do Not Make Things Too Easy - Martha Baird

Do not make things too easy.
There are rocks and abysses in the mind
As well as meadows.
There are things knotty and hard: intractable.
Do not talk to me of love and understanding.
I am sick of blandishments.
I want the rock to be met by a rock.
If I am vile, and behave hideously,
Do not tell me it was just a misunderstanding.

We grow accustomed to the Dark - Emily Dickinson

We grow accustomed to the Dark —
When Light is put away —
As when the Neighbor holds the Lamp
To witness he Goodbye —

A Moment — We uncertain step
For newness of the night —
Then — fit our Vision to the Dark —
And meet the Road — erect —

And so of larger — Darkness —
Those Evenings of the Brain —
When not a Moon disclose a sign —
Or Star — come out — within —

The Bravest — grope a little —
And sometimes hit a Tree
Directly in the Forehead —
But as they learn to see —

Either the Darkness alters —
Or something in the sight
Adjusts itself to Midnight —
And Life steps almost straight.


(The Complete Poems of Emily Dickenson. Poema 419)