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
21 Wednesday Jan 2015
Posted in Poetry
≈ Comments Off on nape i cannot
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.
21 Wednesday Jan 2015
Posted in Poetry
≈ Comments Off on consume the rest
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.
19 Monday Jan 2015
Posted in Poetry
≈ Comments Off on prayer song for corrosion
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
15 Thursday Jan 2015
Posted in Poetry
≈ Comments Off on bone tryst
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
08 Thursday Jan 2015
Posted in Poetry, Spanish, Translation
≈ Comments Off on marjorie agosín’s “peces”
Tags
Marjorie Agosín, Peces, poem, Poetry, Spanish translation, ZJC
Saludo a los peces del mar
respetando su milenaria
genealogía,
sus danzas fugaces y suaves,
los colores que delatan
otros colores,
sus colas iridiscentes
parecidas a los cristales
de las adivinanzas.
Brindo un vaso
de agua
por todos los peces
todavia libres
por su elegante sangre fria
y sus simetrias perfectas.
][][
I greet the fish of the sea
respecting their ancient
tribes,
their fleeting and smooth dances,
colors that reveal
other colors
their iridescent tails
like a fortune teller’s
crystal ball.
I drink a glass
water
for all fish
still free
their elegant coolness
and perfect symmetries.
Marjorie Agosín, “Fish”
– translated by ZJC
06 Tuesday Jan 2015
Tags
morning star, nameless vapor, poem, Poetry, receiver, road-signs, sonnet
Be vast beyond the trees. Be transparent.
The dusk was good. You cavort. I am shy.
Give the sky a backward glance, whose crescent
eyes all these road-signs miss but don’t know why.
So what? – a phone will start ringing, humming
about the rain. Word! you say, the devil
will die – but not like this. There’s a graying
vapor, nameless, across the water; dull
with no words left. For how long will you go
without luggage, shoes, road-signs? You can see
through me. I love symbols, signs. Rise. Again,
press your face to mine under the sky. Glow.
Call me Morning Star. In the receiver
you can just hear a busy-sound, like rain.
31 Wednesday Dec 2014
Posted in Poetry
≈ Comments Off on pogue the hone
Tags
clapperdepouch, houghmagandy, night physic, poem, Poetry, pogue the hone, princum-prancum, pyrdewy pistil, rainlight, rantum-scantum, rumpscuttle
burning to give
a green gown my
fingers smoke
aspen branches
play nug-a-nug
reed voices
slow bee searching in
the pyrdewy pistil
tomorrow will frost
quail in the valley’s
pasture flirt
of underbelly
one
last ride below
the crupper sky
rainlight, houghmagandy
suddenly
winter sun
cricket singing
in the dark night
physic
kiss me
rantum-scantum princum-prancum
call from dreams
blow off the groundsills
Barnaby
dances the Paphian jig
whiskey sours play at tray
trip of dice and shot twixt
wind and water
tonight
giblets tomorrow
hey gammer cook
in my left
rumpscuttle in my
right clapperdepouch
last poem of 2014 ~
dawn
rides a dragon
upon St. George
memories of my ghost sista 