05 Thursday Mar 2015
Posted in Poetry
≈ Comments Off on motes
Tags
cut me I want to taste your
tongue, that damp gristle
give me the part of your face
that I can put close to mine
someone else would
understand. someone else would
touch my tongue without leaving
a scar. a wound.
under my dress dust
23 Monday Feb 2015
Tags
circles kissing water, I'm terrible at saying thank you, ofsoliloquies, poem, Poetry, rootless, sonnet
“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
20 Friday Feb 2015
Posted in Poetry
≈ Comments Off on radical acts
Tags
poem, poet is priest is pervert, Poetry, radical acts, there is no revolution, voyeur as rebel, what offends
“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.
18 Wednesday Feb 2015
Posted in Poetry
≈ Comments Off on mewling
Tags
Diana Prince, everything is better with a katana, lewd selfies, Lynda Carter, mewling, Our Lady of Blue Hot Pants and Breastplates, poem, Poetry, potbellied twins, radio static
“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.
16 Monday Feb 2015
“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.
16 Monday Feb 2015
rain the birds start
up the practice of small
deaths and fleshly
leaves part
inside the bearded
iris song song sticky fever
10 Tuesday Feb 2015
Posted in Poetry, Portuguese, Translation
≈ Comments Off on schall’s AMOR EM AZUL E BRANCO
| 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).
10 Tuesday Feb 2015
Posted in Poetry, Portuguese, Translation
≈ Comments Off on teixeira’s VISITA
| 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.
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.
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
memories of my ghost sista 