pp. 68/69

aaaaWell really you know and in spite of the haricot skull and a tendency to use up any odds and ends of pigment that happened to be left over she was the living spit he thougth of Madonna Lucrezia del Fede. Ne suis-je point pâle? Suis-je belle? But certainly pale and belle my pale belle Braut with a winter skin like any old sail in the wind. The root and the source betwixt and between the little athletic or æsthetic bit of a birdneb was indeed we assure you a constant source of delight and astonishment, when his solitude was not peopled and justified and beautified and even his sociabilities by a constipated coryza, to his forefinger pad and nail, rubbing and plumbing and palping and boring it just as for many years he polished (ecstasy of attrition!) his glasses or suffered the shakes and gracenote strangulations and enthrottlements of the Winkelmusik of Spozen or Pichon or Chopinek or Chopinetto or whosoever it was embraced her heartily as sure as his name was Fred, dying all his life (thanks Mr Auber) on a sickroom talent (thanks Mr Field) and a Kleinmeister's Leidenschaftsucherei (thanks Mr Beckett), or crossed the Seine or the Pegnitz or the Tolka or the Fulda as the case might be and it never by any possible chance on one single solitary occasion occurring to him that he was on all such and similar occasions (which we regret to say lack of space obliges us regretfully to exclude from this chronicle) not merely indulging in but pandering to the vilest and basest excesses of sublimation of a certain kind. The wretched little wet plug of an upperlip, pugnozzling up and back in a kind of a duck or a cobra sneer to the nostrils was happily to some small extent mollified and compensated by the fine full firm undershot priapism of underlip and chin, a signal recovery to say the least and a reaffirmation of the promise of sentimentic vehemence already so gothly declamatory in the wedgehead of the strapping fizgig. From time to time she positively only had to snatch off her amice to be a birdface and to have put Pope John Kissmine and Orchids in mind of his Puerpetually Succourbusting Lady as she positively must have appeared on at least two probabionary occasions: primo, skewered, there's no other word for it, to her loggia by the shining gynaecologist; secundo, confined, by Thermidor, in the interests of her armpits, to her bathroom, shamed in mind, yes, and yet – grieving of the doomed olives. Well we must say and no offence meant, that class of egoterminal immaculate quackery and dupery gives us the sick if anything does. Whatever she was she was not that kind. We suppose we can say she looked like an ulula in pietra serena, a parrot in a Pietà. On occasions that is. Not we need scarcely point out in the helmet of salvation.

Samuel Beckett
Dream of Fair to middling Women

CORDAÁGUA

Choupos de cordaágua.
Percepção oudelírio. Gotas
gotas. De licor verde. Gengivassecas
à vista da paisagem.
Deglutir rindo. Gargalhadas

à vistadasfolhas trémulas.
Choupos com as folhas tenras
aserem vistas por mim se
quiosa.Ó choupal. Penso
nos pormenores da minhaboca.

A minha testa é uma
boca. Marfim ossoes
malte. Formosas papilas
debaixo dosdentes nus.
Esmeraldasvegetais. Folículos.


Fiama Hasse Pais Brandão

Capítulo 16

aaaa Sim, à minha maneira hesitante e desastrada, estava a fazer toda a espécie de descobertas. Uma delas foi a da impossibilidade de ocultar a identidade com o recurso à terceira pessoa, assim como a de a estabelecer unicamente por intermédio da primeira pessoa do singular. Outra foi: não se deve pensar diante de uma página em branco. Ce n'est pas moi, le roi, c'est l'autonome. Não eu, mas o Pai existente em mim, por outras palavras.
aaaa Exigia grande disciplina conseguir que as palavras pingassem sem as abanar com uma pena ou mexê-las com uma colher de prata. Aprender a esperar, a esperar pacientemente, como uma ave de rapina, mesmo que as moscas picassem, desalmadas, e os pássaros chilreassem como loucos. Antes de Abraão era... Sim, antes do olímpico Goethe, antes do grande Shakespeare, antes do divino Dante ou do imortal Homero, era o Verbo, e o Verbo estava em cada homem. O homem nunca careceu de palavras. A dificuldade só surgiu quando o homem obrigou as palavras a fazer acrobacias. Ficai quietos e aguardai a vinda do Senhor! Apagai todo o pensamento, observai o movimento silencioso do céu! É tudo fluxo e movimento, luz e sombra. Que haverá de mais parado do que um espelho, do que a petrificada vitrescência do vidro? E, no entanto, que frenesi, que fúria, a sua superfície parada pode reflectir!


Nexus
Henry Miller
Trad: Fernanda Pinto Rodrigues

to the whore who took my poems

some say we should keep personal remorse from
the poem,
stay abstract, and there is some reason in this,
but jezus;
twelve poems gone and I don't keep carbons and you have
my
paintings too, my best ones; it's stifling:
are you trying to crush me out like the rest of them?
why didn't you take my money? they usually do
from the sleeping drunken pants sick in the corner.
next time take my left arm or a fifty
but not my poems;
I'm not Shakespeare
but sometime simply
there won't be any more, abstract or otherwise;
there'll always be money and whores and drunkards
down to the last bomb,
but as God said,
crossing his legs,
I see where I have made plenty of poets
but not so very much
poetry.


Charles Bukowski