rain the birds start
up the practice of small
deaths and fleshly
leaves part
inside the bearded
iris song song sticky fever
mother tongue
16 Monday Feb 2015
Category Archives: Poetry
schall’s AMOR EM AZUL E BRANCO
10 Tuesday Feb 2015
Posted in Poetry, Portuguese, Translation
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| AMOR EM AZUL E BRANCO Virgínia Schall |
LOVE IN BLUE AND WHITE translation by ZJC |
|---|---|
| Nuvens brancas espumas flutuando os andes Brancas geleiras pinceladas impressionistas descendo sobre os cimos do Ozorno Branco em flor campo de margaridas ondulando ao vento Branco-amor esvoaça em lençois e cortinas desnudando os corpos no quarto róseos, ardentes, úmidos e ungidos Branco enevoado do ar em cheiro de sêmen-vida do encontro que exala e enche a casa perfuma a brisa e se espalha por entre as ondas suaves do marinho Pacífico, ornando a cena, túrgido e cingido ao azul celeste da Terra em cio. |
White clouds foam floating across the Andes White glaciers Like impressionist brushstrokes coming down off the peaks of the Ozorno White flowers a field of daisies rippling in the wind White-love fluttering in the sheets and curtains they bare their bodies in this room all rosy, glowing, wet and anointed White misty air that smells of vital cum from the encounter that exudes and fills the house with perfumes the breeze spreads through the gentle waves of the Pacific ocean, gracing the world, surrounding the turgid heat of the blue Earth. |
Poet’s Biography:
Besides writing poetry, VIRGINIA TORRES SCHALL is a psychologist, biological scientist (neurophysiology and behavior), and holds a Ph.D. in education. She has been working at Fundacao Oswaldo Cruz (Rio de Janeiro, Brazil) since 1981 as a researcher. In 1990, she created the Laboratory of Environmental and Health Education (Department of Biology, Oswaldo Cruz Institute). According to her website she is also currently working at Rene Rachou Research Center (Fundacao Oswaldo Cruz, Belo Horizonte).
teixeira’s VISITA
10 Tuesday Feb 2015
Posted in Poetry, Portuguese, Translation
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| VISITA Virna G. Teixeira |
VISIT translation by ZJC |
|---|---|
| criado-mudo: bíblia e rosário de contas na cama, ao lado |
Bedside table: a bible and rosary beads In bed |
Poet’s Biography:
Born in Fortaleza, Brazil, in 1971 VIRNA G. TEIXEIRA works as a neurologist in São Paulo, and has published three books of poetry: Visit (2000), Distance (2005) by 7 Letters Press and Transits (2009) by Lumme Editor, as well as several titles of Scottish poetry translations.
shoulder deep (these damning words)
03 Tuesday Feb 2015
Shoulder deep in the ocean at sunrise —-
night, stars, fish slid around me, my hair swirled
behind. This point in the sand horrifies
me, this point where the tide pulls and the world
wonders if I’ll return to shore or let
myself be dragged forward. There are spirits
in the deep that are hungry for touch, wet
like me in the surf, who know the secrets
of how to survive under such pressure
but have no wish to survive. If only
there was a third option; neither forward
nor back; something to calm this sex-fever.
Brain sick, I cannot choose the land, the sea,
madness, love, silence or these damning words.
XERXES SEX REX
02 Monday Feb 2015
poppies wept
swept between
the waves at
dawn over the
stone pier mist
increased I
ceased out from
the dune’s salt
tongue past the
creek its pale
waves dragging
rain froth and
downfall and
for a moment
passing through
his hunger-song
I heard a name
a monstrous
palindrome the
gulf’s firth a basin
shaman By then
I’d learned of the
Ampullae of
Lorenzini The
shark is a tune
a pychedelicacy
and you darling red
heart a mere morsel
nape i cannot
21 Wednesday Jan 2015
Posted in Poetry
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Tags
blood ax, conjured claws, groove maker, I still cannot sleep, nape I cannot, poem, Poetry, porno-proud static, shattered ink
It’s not the violence, I tell
you, that draws me in, we’ve
survived worse, it’s
the porno-proud static it’s
the television glow. It’s
the peel unpeeled. Call it
the sense of control. Between
the fox and the wolf I choose
the blood ax, the groove maker,
the conjured claws bared
to the bone. Lonely beasts
have no idea how to ask
to be invited in. I wanted
to knock you to the ground,
sit upon your shoulder
blade, play with your
nape. I cannot
sleep tonight. Foolish
child, the static glows, I
warned you, go shut the door.
consume the rest
21 Wednesday Jan 2015
Posted in Poetry
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Tags
chaos bores, consume the rest, flesh eating bacteria, new pastoral, poem, Poetry, sextant is broken
— bony hired hands
There is no frieze with
me dancing on it. Renoir,
like Hollywood, passed
me by. I have no spark, no
flint, no wheel to measure
the heavens. There are no
heaven, singular or plural.
What rite, what coven, what
belief would encompass this?
The sextant is broken, the
compass thrown down. Let
the maps drivel three-fold
down the page. What will
clean the mud from these
wounds? What will look upon
this flesh without horror? If
there’s a pastoral scene
with me in it, burn the hay,
salt the earth, let flesh-eating
bacteria consume the rest. I
look for no wily shepherdess,
no bucolic wood-man with
a cock out to here. Even chaos bores.
better life through chemistry
21 Wednesday Jan 2015
Posted in quotes
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the only sensible way to live in a world that has hang-ups with genetics
prayer song for corrosion
19 Monday Jan 2015
Posted in Poetry
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Tags
wind &
badlands
but no dark
bush
promising
that I’d
split my first
imagined
kiss calling
it lip
praise down
your throat
I’ll rot
bewitchingly
bone tryst
15 Thursday Jan 2015
Posted in Poetry
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Tags
bone tryst, let the horny and unlovable promise, poem, Poetry, rancorous tea, Santy Ano, you tacky thing
I.
you put them
on the horny
and unlovable
promise that they’ll
collect my bones
they think bones
are easy to
collect you don’t
even get your
feet wet I long
for something
half-dissolved in
my bed milky
eyes long long
fingers an O of
a mouth O
II.
scream I long
for something
with a little shock
wave swagger
who knows blood
boat dialects
something to
follow me down
Santy Ano
to watch me
scatter on impact
who can suck
the marrow out
of my phalanges
III.
pang fathom
four where my
femur once slept
bone tryst let
the horny and
unlovable promise
I long for rancorous
tea I long for
something with matted fur
IV.
a wilderness like fog a
hunger like a packet
rat take all my
ruin that you
find you tacky
thing you put them on
memories of my ghost sista 