the heat of the beast [o cio da fera]

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Você é um deusa do morte,
e eu sou sem pudor sem roupa.
Não me toca.
Eu sou o fogo que os mortos tem de se lembrar.
O cio da fera.
A loucura de uma irmã.
Há alguns incêndios que você não pode matar.

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You are a goddess of death,
and I’m shamelessly naked.
Do not touch me.
I’m the fire that the dead must remember.
The heat of the beast.
The madness of a sister.
There are some fires you can not kill.

i will not show you mine [não vou mostrar mina para você]

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Estamos todos vimos que de fenda imaculado. Mesmo as crianças vão dizer o que é. Eles vão explicar-lhe por que ele abre e fecha. Ai!, minha contrações, sangue bombeando, minha flor que arde. Vá-se embora. Não vou mostrar mina para você. Minha longos arrepios. O pulso de meu desejo, duros, retesados. Minha curtas contrações. Vida latejando, querendo implodir, ou escoar fora. Vá-se embora. Aquele pequeno fogo, no interior do ferimento de faca, pulsa e repuxa, molha minha boca, pressionado contra o chão da cozinha.
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We’ve all seen that immaculate slit. Even children will tell you what it is. They will explain to you why it opens and closes. Ai!, my contractions, blood pumping, my flower that burns. Go away. I will not show you mine. My long chills. The pulse of my desire, hard, taut. My short contractions. Life throbbing, wanting to implode, or seep out. Go away. That small fire inside the knife wound, pulsating and jerking, wets my mouth, pressed against the kitchen floor.

once there was a girl who fell in love with a ghost …

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the girl who fell in love with a ghost 1

there was once a girl who fell in love with a ghost ….
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Minha amada tem nenhuma de carne, tem nenhuma de pele, tem nenhuma pêlo. Minha amada é lisa como um fantasma. Ele está no jardim. Ele está arrancando as pétalas fora flores. “Ela me ama … Ela não me ama …” Minha amada é azul.
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My beloved has no body, has no skin, has no fur. My beloved is smooth like a ghost. He is in the garden. He is plucking the petals off flowers. “She loves me … She loves me not …” My beloved is blue.

girl who fell in love with a ghost 3

the girl who fell in love with a ghost 2

the girl who fell in love with a ghost 4

at the door of the house

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entering the house of the orgasm

Quando a orgasmo vem, e o vento sopra e canta para os deuses; por favor, orem por mim. Eu sou o suplicante. Você deve lamber minha carne. Minha pele que é poesia. Casa de orgasmo. Você alega que você é o redentor de delírios. Amor e os deuses pode ser delírios, mas eles são a única loucura que eu sei.
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When the orgasm comes and the wind blows and sings to the gods; please, pray for me. I am the supplicant. You must lick my flesh. My skin is poetry. The house of the orgasm. You claim that you are the redeemer of delusions. Love and the gods may be delusions, but they are the only madness that I know.

anne sexton’s HER KIND

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HER KIND

Todos sozinhos eu saí, uma bruxa possessa,
assombrando o ar negro, mais corajosa à noite;
sonhando maldade, realizei meu voo
por sobre as casas, luz após luz:
Eu sou um coisa sozinha, com doze dedos, fora do juízo.
Uma mulher como essa não é uma mulher, quase.
Uma vez eu era o tipo dela.

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I have gone out, a possessed witch,
haunting the black air, braver at night;
dreaming evil, I have done my hitch
over the plain houses, light by light:
lonely thing, twelve-fingered, out of mind.
A woman like that is not a woman, quite.
I have been her kind.

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— from Anne Sexton, HER KIND

pakistan blast kills female students

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My friend Scott, author of the blog Human Writes, has been for a while following and championing the poetry and life of a Pakistani poet, Maryam Shahbaz, who lives in the city of Sialkot. I’ve been following his posts because, frankly, her work is amazing (and so is his) and I can’t wait until her book of poetry is published so I can have my very own copy as well.

It was with shock and dismay that I read about a bomb going off at an all-woman’s university in the city of Quetta, killing at least one student. The BBC reported:

At least 11 students and have been killed and 22 wounded in a blast on a bus at a university for women in the north-western Pakistani city of Quetta. “It was an improvised explosive device placed in the women university bus,” police chief Zubair Mahmood said. Some attacks are carried out by separatists and others by Islamists who oppose women’s education.

Here in the West artists have the freedom to write or make whatever they want and there are virtually no repercussions. They do not craft work that threatens any established order, they say nothing that is a blasphemy in a world where simply being female and educated is seen as a sin by some, and most importantly, their art changes no lives for the better. Not in real, concrete ways, not like Maryam is trying to do.

My heart and thoughts go out to those hurt and killed in yesterday’s terrorist attack. The dark that surrounds us is a violent and cruel place toward those who try to speak the truth, for those who attempt to change the established order for the better of everyone. No one ever wishes to find themselves in such a world; however, when we do we have a moral obligation to help change it. Even if my personal art does not change anything, I can deeply support those whose art does.

Thank you, Scott, for following the work of this brave poet and thank you everyone who supports Pakistan, feminism and the arts. These are the tools that will help us change future generations for the better. Blessings.