By AIRTON PASCHOA*
eight short pieces
ad nauseam
the sea that rises and falls
go down and up and not climb
the sea and its eternal failure
the sea that comes and goes
comes and goes and never passes
the sea and its eternal farce
the sea is sick
sea of people
To my good Brazil
My brother wanted to wash his soul. He bellowed, foamed, danced and sang under a shower of applause. The human wave drowns and caresses. My brother sings that it's sweet to die in the sea and he dives headlong. How I envy him in his crawl-and-crowd! Stroke after stroke, kick after kick, header after header.
Not Utopia, Pangea
My friends who are happy... Children and grandchildren of immigrants, can afford to take refuge, even if only imaginary, in the beloved homeland of their ancestors, — Switzerland, Finland, even Italy! As for me, woe is me, who didn't fall for the big luck, there's nothing left but to follow through these ill-fated places miasmating and without squeaking or squeaking softly that one day we shared a single land.
No balm
The ferries are saying goodbye, it is true, passed over by the bridges, a means of transport that suits the weather better. The world is running out of shores, another serious truth, and the rafts without threshing floor or shore. What good is it to them, my Lord of Navigators, if they only know how to come and go, if they haven't even learned to write verses? I'm afraid zombies are wandering the bridges, end to end, at least until they decide to throw themselves off them.
Suspension bridge
It's an island, everyone knows. And everyone knows what to do on an island. There are bad weather, there are storms, there are earthquakes, seaquakes, and everything that is a kind of death. Few survive, we all know. Most come and go, carried along by the mood of the tide, but they don't lose hope of finishing the ark. From up here the work seems silly, an armful of water knocks down walls, drowns thousands. Strangely, however, they continue to do laps, or shrugs, God knows, anything to get to the other side, the other island. But I don't guarantee it. It's just what I think when I wash my feet.
Ministry of Health warns
When, from the depths of the most tumid bitumen, the thirst for infinity is quenched, and the restrained reader considers, with breathless air and moist eyes, that nothing else consoles, comet, cloud, wind, weathervane, firefly, free verse, the tumbles memory blind, well, well, close the window and open the fridge. Drink a glass of very cold water, with your eyes open, or beer, if you prefer your eyes closed. O foam of foams! Just be sure to open them sparingly.
Nativity scene
We smile warmly. The old fence smile that no one dares to pass. When we recognize each other. When not, we smile. Supper is plentiful and everyone is satisfied, including words. Soon we will all be on our stomachs. Why… I don't remember. I remember that we no longer sleep on straw, we no longer eat in a manger and animals cool off in the fridge. The night is hot, like melting glaciers, and the greenhouse effect is a reality that requires antacid.
see ships
Too bad the sea is so late... Seeing ships up close is my weakness by far. Amidst the chatter of the port, the chatter of the birds, the laughing foam, as they sway in sleep, soft, the silent giants, as if cradling, paternal, patient, the little black freighters scratching their sides... When shall we leave, oh peaceful ocean liners? oh greenhouse effect! oh heartless hubcaps!
*Airton Paschoa is a writer, author, among other books, of see ships (Nankin, 2007).
