landscape widening

Wassily Kandinsky, Beach Baskets In Holland, 1904.
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By PRISCILA FIGUEIREDO*

six poems

FOLLOW MY REASONING

You appeared to me in a dream
this sentence must be very remote
framing us with Phoenician Greeks
Sumerian Egyptian Babylonians
Christians, to us
from the Middle Ages, Modern, to Hamlet!
Everyone, I think, used it, we still use it,
knowing or not knowing about Freud,
be the outsiders in this hostel of ours
either alive or dead.
Turn and move happens
of an hour we give in to this poetic lapse
or, because that's what it is deep down, to the desire
to visit and be visited
or visit a child there, another there
elsewhere sleeping.

But it is not
that we divide, a part of us travels,
the other stays at home — isn't it:
each one is now like a monotheistic god,
everywhere present, but in everything undivided,
and this becomes clear when the reports coincide:
“Edna appeared to me in a dream tonight”,
"Do not say! It appeared to me too!”
And we laughed a little knowing that then we formed
a triune and secret community
or a kind of value to Edna.

But I dare not ask
what did she do in her dream
even my friend doesn't ask me that;
we like to think that Edna walked
strolling, or jumped
from one moment to another
from one dream to another, or else
jumped at the same instant on both,
maybe in others more.

(With the animals of our affection
it is not customary to express ourselves in this way, to say
“Catito came to me today in a dream” we don’t say…
or do we say? But we shouldn't do that
take care now.)

There is a kind of happiness for this
landscape enlargement,
where they now enter,
it doesn't matter if the image fails a little,
those outside the frame at the vigil—whether by death
or for things in life. penetrate to
our enemies,
and then that's when we come back many times
to be friends.

So what on the couch is clarified
like Maria or Edna or the corner shopkeeper
are they not of themselves, but do they speak of you?
What does it matter?
So why was I scared of myself?
walking in your dream here and in the dream of one
friend from there,
me passing through São Paulo,
but also for Amapá, why?

There is the problem, of course, of the decidedly
undesirable effects, such as advertisements,

...................................................and there is the case of one in this country who, at the same time or almost,
...................................................walks through the minds of countless dreamers, including
...................................................sleepless dreamers.

Unfortunately
we can't say they are replicas
put one on each one's head,
don't be either
omnipresent and indivisible,
as the others we have seen by our criteria
poetic and ancient;
or even if appearing a lot it erodes
his massive and distributed presence —
how many thousands in a single day do not say:
“I dreamed of Him”, “Me too
another day!”, “Me too…”,

“Until yesterday this had not happened,
but in a nap appeared he, the devil,
with your evil laugh,
your reptilian neck”?
this shape,
hopeful and kind, which excited
now it gives me chills —
but in this case using it proves
further my reasoning.

 

IT HAD A GLASS ROOF:
You understood then what that entailed —
a bigger stone to be thrown at him,
and he was screwed.
The exposure was constant, but gradually
he understood that this was his destiny.
For the time being, only pebbles were thrown at him,
or filled their hands with the sleeping hail
to shoot him again; the children
squatted on the windowpane,
flicking marbles,
playing trick, or else
they laughed looking at his face —
why didn't they jump to break everything at once?

They grew up as mean as their parents,
and many were those who capitulated, leaving
moral brakes aside,
extending the time of fear in the man who stayed
just below
glassy-eyed
as much as the audience upstairs.
They attached an epithet to it, “the glass fish”,
and the expression should condense the idea
that the house was an aquarium,
or the tiles the scales of a fish.

Habit did not lessen his fear for that;
more people gathered, setting up tents
nearby, taking turns with each other
to climb the skylight, sticking your face
between the sashes, making indecorous gestures
with his hand, uttering sinister phrases.
I had a fixed idea like the audience —
when would she take the step
for the Big Event?
Surely they'd rather have it under control
to have some more fun.
Still he slept
and stood sentry, with one eye
open under the roof that anytime
would plummet.

The summary was: himself with time
became translucent and brittle,
I no longer ate or worked,
and your bones came to break
even before the glass.
As for the fate of the crowd,
they couldn't tell me, so I figured:
after the disappointment and anger, she must
have been bored,
but it didn't take long and soon someone
came to say: “Hey!, I found another
glass roof!".

 

GEMA

I'm fine this way, quiet,
I don't move a millimeter for myself;
I carefully lay here,
that's how I stayed, I didn't spread out,
I didn't take up space. Warning: the sharpness
forever changes my state.

Made me slip out
of the protective and porous shell —
at least I got rid of
of viscous caress,
of the seamless coat of albumin.
They had doubts whether I, species
of yellow calf, it stood upright;
but I didn't scream; silent, survive,
also the thermal difference.

I need to concentrate, join
all my centripetal force.
I am delicate, but solid and attentive;
sometimes I tremble,
and that's a sign of freshness.
I guarantee that between my surface and my interior
there are no surprises
but don't pay to see —
my film, also security lanyard,
protects me from the surroundings, protects him from me.

Once broken,
I spill and impregnate myself with a nauseating smell
things, I force my domain.
shall come
the bumps of chance and malice,
or they'll stab me to see if I bleed —
now I have the color of gold and the heartbeat of life,
now I'm better what characterizes me, I am
just concentrated.

 

SLOTH can be a virtue,
I always thought that —
however it was still ugly to divulge.
Now I have the authority
by Kurt von Hammerstein.
Virtuous
Prussian officer, aristocrat and obstinate
in saving man from man,
I had a good idea of ​​laziness,
for him a virtue.
So I'm going to enjoy it soon —
rascal has less credit
how Prussian and military.

Come on, come here!
Swear? Do I really have to go kill?
Woke up late, missed meeting
in which crimes were planned.
Didn't kill the family,
went straight to the movies.
out of laziness
it didn't even occur to him to lynch.

How to sell the product better?
Isn't it that good anymore?
It takes work to deceive... to deceive
always ask upgrade;
career
asks upgrade,
income does not nap!
Technology
has a craze for innovating!
Empire if stand still
cease to prevail.
None of this is at peace with you or says:
“Enough, okay! How beautiful it is”.

Laziness, but also tiredness,
his cousin, crosses his arms:
oh no, I won't do everything right!
There are things that are better not to do
well done. There are things that scare
to do it well.
What a disappointment, we work
for life to get worse.

Do I have time there for intrigue?
I stay asleep; soon
I make better use of my time.
“Spend like this when you die,
go to sleep without waking up
a delight! no one to bother."
But sleeping is not dying,
sleep is sleep and wake up —
dead does not dream or take pleasure,
dead doesn't know
the pleasure of dreaming...

“How is she so much prettier than me!
Patience, it happens!”
“Come to me, you vagabonds,
so do the sluts,
that all these will live in heaven.”
“Do you want me to give you a kingdom on earth?” he asked.
Satan to Jesus in the desert.
“Ah, thought this one,
what a quarry, I already have a kingdom up there,
and when I go up there, I will have the help of two,
I will demand triune rulership.”

Satan is insistent, he does not sleep,
tries, attentive, full of intent;
Satan is not still, all the time
make a bet.
Imperative proactive workaholic,
demon full of goals.
Quiet the torch, Satan! relax — you
is very diligent.

 

THE TIRED DEATH

the curved blade stuck into the earth
of your instrument
and rest your hands and chin
about the cable now.
Ela
who did not stop
nor the dread of the son of God
in its inconceivable solitude —
categorical and imperative
unavoidable
incomprehensible
on days like today though
stake, lets out a discreet sigh
(knows that everything he does is a sign)
and starts hunting
with an imaginary scythe
a light, a possibility:

who
Could you replace it for a few hours?
who what?
a gravedigger replaces himself
a nurse
the wake watchman
a stock exchange operator
or an atomic reactor
one hour
each of these replaces
but not her
unique in its kind,

the unwanted of people
what one avoids talking about
like the devil and unemployment,
what is supposed to scare
with three solemn knocks on wood,
imagined always lurking —
"You never know tomorrow!"

The origin
of humility
philosophy and history
sometimes from discord
as of love;
the queen of the night
and of all castes —
to her we pay homage
wanting or not wanting
knowing or not knowing...

Behold, he wields the scythe again
hooked like your hand;
is great lady
but in the end it knows no rest —
or will it be the pride of your
incomparable power
that gives you the energy of a power plant?
(Your thoughts just now,
unfinished, have already dissipated.)

 

THUNDERBOLT

Why did you think I was like this?
I was seated,
the mask glued to the face
the eyes behind the glasses
so many staples
covering dirty hair
dirty from days, I shouldn't say
he was still wearing loose clothes.

you see me well now
but see why you took the risk and found
who saw me at that time —
why did you think you saw me
at that time?
I just said: I'm leaving
I had no means to give
a min sign, an index
nothing made me visible:
"the first view“? - just laughing.

Will my background look
corroded layers like an acid?
or was it the tail of a muscle in the face
the ends of a U near the hoop
from when i smile inside?
(the lenses fogged up from the steam
this turned out well);

but for me all i was
that was it, before and after
of the three words.
I was like behind the door —
and you went to find
that was just that door.

*Priscila Figueiredo is a professor of Brazilian literature at USP. Author, among other books, of Matthew (poems) (well i saw you).

 

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