rootless

23 Monday Feb 2015

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“take me to the poppy field, I asked my/ lover”
— — ofsoliloquies

[S]ister stalk the root taken from my jaw,
flowers keel over, the hothouse frame cracks

and curve. What you give I cannot name, gnaw,
wake or smoke your bouquets down to their flax

and heart. At the water’s edge I’m earthbound
but there — — “circles kissing water” — — spirit

troubling surface. Your words the good wound,
the wind that drags my hoop skirt and corset

from me. Point toward whiskey benediction,
up to the neck. Fill my jaw-hole, waiting

for the holy holy. Press nerve, milky
weed, cracked lips, reluctant waves suck crimson

down what you give rootless I blow letting
me name troubled waters holy holy

radical acts

20 Friday Feb 2015

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“poet is priest is pervert”

We go to the cloister’s windows and
watch the nuns undressing. Some

smoke cigarettes, others eat
mandarins. All of them have fingers

stained blue with iodine, anything
to prove that they haven’t been

touching themselves. Show me a nun
who will show what lays between

her thighs and I’ll show you a new
world order. But that’s not change.

The ex-communicated know that priests
in love with teenage anarchy are still

oppressors. The theology student with a
PhD is still making shit up. There is

no overture to a revolution. There is no
revolution. Systems are systems,

interchangeable, stretching out before
us, sweet with hope. But that’s not what

offends. It’s when the girl, turning around,
sees our breath staining the window

from which we watch. As if your
fingerprints, pressing against the glass,

are radical acts. As if my heart, pounding
on the pane, is some sort of freedom.

mewling

18 Wednesday Feb 2015

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“it crawled into my system/ while my guard was down,” – curve, fait accompli

A prophetess speaks on
the airwaves. Got your ears

on? Roll me like spirit
weed, careful I crumble.

You called me a pretty
fear, for I am low. Off

the interstate I heard
their mewling among

the worm seed. Cat-
pawed girls, potbellied

twins, they say, don’t try
to get away, their flea

bites the proof that I need.
I would tie up their hair

in ribbons. We’d wear thigh-
high go-go boots. I wouldn’t

be lonely while shifting
gears. We three succeed in

worshiping Our Lady of Blue
Hot Pants and Breastplates,

Lynda Carter. Forever reruns
is the best an actress can

hope for. The static of a radio
and the static of a TV is

the same static. Somewhere
Diana Prince is taking off

her glasses. You think that
I’m lonely. You send lewd

seflies but that’s not what
I want. There are some spirits

I’d still fall on my sword for, as
if to say, got the guts for it?

Everything is better with
a katana. To say, indeed,

everything is better when
someone else is driving,

the window rolled down,
I’m drunk and lolling. Break

her, he said. You had no
choice. I go down like death’s

seed. I cloud your judgment.
Breaker. Breaker. Good

buddy. That is to say, I am
here to stay. Hear me now.

strange octave

16 Monday Feb 2015

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“A bra, a bra for all/ sizes” – May Wong,
a bad girl’s book of animals (1969)

Pity the mermaid, she knows nothing about
cunnilingus. Underwear baffles her.

I’d give up my fins, too, to lick that doubt.
To taste what the other side enjoys. Her

body comes out of the sea at dusk, crawls
through the grasses. There are no runaways.

No one gets to swim free. On the stonewall
of the beach – a house; its alien ways

will vex her. Even the shamans among
her kind can only sing about night skies.

We hope a queer stanza, a strange octave
will lead to wonders, to songs that our tongues

forgot. As if it’s language that denies
us all this, and not us denying love.

​schall’s AMOR EM AZUL E BRANCO

10 Tuesday Feb 2015

Posted by 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

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VISITA
Virna G. Teixeira 		VISIT
translation by ZJC
criado-mudo:
bíblia e
rosário de contas

na cama, ao lado
a nudez
sem nome

Bedside table:
a bible and
rosary beads

In bed
this nakedness
has no name

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.