Friday, September 7, 2012

nothing to skin

"Quiet Silence", by Oleg Duryagin

 Cruelty has a human heart,
 And Jealousy a human face;
 Terror the human form divine,
 And Secresy the human dress.

 The human dress is forged iron,
 The human form a fiery forge,
 The human face a furnace sealed,
 The human heart its hungry gorge.
 (William Blake, “A Divine Image”)

fidgeting with reminiscences of a non-time square of burns and bringing them back into… play? no, today those rhymes I couldn’t put away for… woke me up – seedlessly without  a profound outward gutter to sleep in? dreamed role-transfigurations in the midst of…? through reveries, the slogs may be, they seem so delicate dances swish open, enlarging the abyss of feeling nothing amplifying the skin to touch the precipice of walking away without and (in-)prosing the unbearable side of this insensibility that sets me softly down beside the innocuous visible of the delusional, am I? that’s what gets me lost in the stream and chatter of a non-touch there are little birds crying out to be heard outside they are inviting me to keep up with I slit the window open and just hark back a glass of wine, on that table mixed up with books and photos and invisible lands, it is stuffing imaginations and echoes behind but, once I pour the liquid in to, once I go there ●  there's nothing to skin neither fear, nor boldness there’s no heat, no chill not even a wish ● of crying, of whisper, nothing to laugh off or tear down ● I don’t want to grin or bear up against whatever I only skim over the birds, and the wine, and across everything enticing me to flute with but can’t recognize them in me there's neither hunger, nor a glut of things not even overwhelming steps or pulp delusions nothing to blush to or leave behind, there's nothing to skin have I moved out… away from me? who knows everything, please don't say me the way who knows nothing, I beg you, just remain softly in your hush  don't despair, don't concern I even no longer remember who’s traced me this   

Saturday, July 28, 2012

O Equador das Coisas #2

jornal de literatura e arte
número 2 | issue 2 | mai-jun 2012

« La littérature [ou l’art elle-même] sert à nous éclairer sur le monde en ses multiples états, à nous en révéler les hideurs et les splendeurs, les astres et les désastres, à nous faire comprendre sa logique et ses contradictions, à nous faire sentir sa cruauté et sa tendresse... »
Hubert Nyssen, in Mais à quoi donc sert la littérature?

It can’t be more joyous when you have your life replete with literature and art, their pieces of madness, their flaps of delicacy; tormented lines and pages, even simplest emotions and sounds and such an imagery about to disclose or keep in everlasting secrete all the trash or all the wonder you – and your existent or fictionized Others – may be blown away with in life…
Joyous and marvelous if you are endowed with art both pulsation and vividness coursing through your veins, making you flute with them, and resigned to enriching the myopic-limited vision you have – of the world and of every single gesture or murmur from persons and personas you are barely familiar with… in your… frenzied tick-tack fragments of days…  
For what it’s worth in our very “contemporary times” or just for those who’d rather dress up to take part in this or that “bombastic, spectacular episode”, and whatsoever, literature [art, itself] does serve a purpose, for it has a preponderant role. Not a $-plin-plin “function” as it’s instilled in many atoms of ours, but a role… Art has a sensible undisciplined role… So that it plays the misfit part of that dormant [yet existent] spark inside us over those nights of disgusting exhaustion over whatever that brings us drops by drops of sweat, rather than uniqueness. Art plays the captivating part of that footloose reminiscence we may bring back to heart in dawns of desperation or solitude… or just insanity, one of that sprounting from our so beating discombobulated moments…
So if it’s really possible to say that literature and art serve a purpose, there’s nothing more touching and true than this everything – as exact as beautiful – said once by the fine scholar, Hubert Nyssen, during a magnificent speech at l’Université de Liége, in Belgium: “literature [art itself] serves to enrich our vision about the world, shedding light on its multiple states; it serves to disclose the world's horrors and splendors, its asters and disasters; to make us understand its reasons and contradictions; and to let us sense its crudeness and lightness…”
My so zigzag words today, dear friends and partners in this amazing crime – literature and art – serve a purpose as well… I’m [over-]honored to bring you, even through these misfit words of mine ever, the issue #2 of our O Equador das Coisas, a project for a journal of literature and arts we came up with in the beginning of this year… even in times of too many screens and their much more enticing spectacles…  
When I say I’m extremely honored, I refer to a double preponderant reason: to contribute to spark the interest of others in this vital field – literature and art – which has been enlightening my own twisted life’s forward motion my childhood now; and especially because in this issue we were beautifully blessed by so many sensitive, talented artists who still believe, like ourselves, in the redemptive power of art.
Our most special acknowledgments to Miki Turner, this so talented photographer who generously accepted to enrich the pages of our journal with her pictures and words; to poet Mike Meraz, and his “asphalt pains and verses that dream flowers", brilliantly sellected and introduced by our poet-editor Karime Limon; to the wondrous IARA FERNANDES, and her delicious "tracing-in-zigzag" short story; to the fabulous TATIANA CARLOTTI, and her intriguing, captivating story on such an ordinary woman with her misadventures sprounting from her "crushed" eveyday life; to writer SARA RAUCH, whose words are nothing but that enchanting everything which gravitates around all us making us contemplate the delicious side of a brilliant creative writing; to poet Ricardo Rother, and his incredible post-traumatic strokes and verses; to the amazing CLÁUDIA LEMOS, whose story gave us the gift to step into a very sublime literary encounter, between creators and their creatures, their personas somewhat close and distant from ourselves; to the major fictionist LISA ALVES, whose writing we had the honor to feature once again, for it beats all inside us, and it pulses so beautifully, so rhythmically within; to the brilliant Ana Lúcia Sorrentino, with her terrific “casual lovers, stimulating desperations”; to Uianatan Alecrim, whose first-part short story on the pages of the first issue grew in new contours and climaxes, and had its upshot in this second one; and to all our readers, supporters, appreciators… partners in this wonderful crime of still believing in art and helping us to reverberate it all over…

Thursday, July 26, 2012

anastrophe II

or evanescence 4071

looks at me a placid reverie and just grins this nonsense-I ●● "no longer, no repentance– much flourish, many flames– you are but a wound, a drafty, ruined plan" ●● rushing back my failures to that plastic mirror turning on the water and letting the faucet prey upon my body– frail, stretchy, vile– the shower drop by drop embezzles my dirt, washing away the corners I crisscrossed replete with so many torments– ●● overlook from there I that Temple of facing whatever– my bathroom, that mirror and miss the days I was reputed to be fragmented by, or filled in drops after drops of trash behind trash and chaos inside layers of misappropriations blurring the line...

Sunday, July 1, 2012

não dito pelo vão

Linda Perhacs  |  Moons and Cattails

Procuro onde encostar as marcas, que latejam. Os passos atordoados de hoje não dizem muito, senão que em dois dias ontem me faz amanhã. Aquelas supostas inconveniências de ponteiros se desdobrando em marteladas, eu vou transformando todas elas em noites insones com pés vacilantes, olhos indisponíveis e mãos sozinhas.
É preciso controlar as esquinas, que falam excessivamente de coisas pras quais não vejo nunca sentido. O dissabor de olhar pro céu aceitando que sobre mim pesam anos de frases feitas e méritos desfeitos em frivolidades... Ah se eu. Pudesse-me... E coubesse-nos… Pois eu faria então um muito, que de menos ou de uns tantos – sabe-se quem lá: rodopiaria as marcas, atropelaria as marteladas, desaceitaria as noites frívolas. E os sonhos feitos. E as inconveniências restituídas ao sabor dos nadas. Também os sozinhos-eles, olhos indisponíveis em mãos-ponteiros...

Saturday, June 23, 2012

what shall we?

        for Imen, Audrey, Eabha
        for Trian


While I write my trash, you surely live. Away. Forever on. Glad or gloomy. Extreme, but not as others do. And I staunch my blood. You – that vibrant chord I finger to not (in)exist myself. It wasn’t important, or if, won’t pass off as. You might be that (cute) peppy cuddly-like screen(in-) play I make sure by this whole uncertainty inside. Even at zigzags, apparently posing as a fiction(trick)ist or somewhat, I am only a package of toilet paper got to act – out. But I design the kerns… Although you surely "liven’t", we seem so suited, so incredibly alike, so you replenish my sources, and dance me to that gorgeous slice of… (in)coherence. A creature. In such a Beautifugly Land – charming and wobbly. With those portraits into sunny days. Our time – enjoyed to infinite of its impossibilities. And duplications. One into another. We both guttering out. Etymologically. Consciously streaming in all those mixed up syntaxes. Our shelf-looking realms. Cloistered. Remote. Yet beating everywhere…
I past-continuous you myself. You future-present coursing me through. When you’ve been created, I will give you legs to overstep the lifeless, cold asphalt. I dress you in a hand-to-hand melancholy, which was to just say, “I’m alive,” “you should be as slippery as you (un)expect some day to not clench my body, but gravitate around.” Your eyes, I painted them black, and it will be to remember leaving things behind. Mouths of cries and whispers, I will give you them all. Head of a non-machine time, that’s what I hope for you, my creature, my gloves. And fingers and hands and hair and nose – even tummy and nails – to smell and taste and touch and envision the opposite – you, my double misfit, why not? I am sick, and mad. You are not blind… “Making plans for today, what shall we do?”
In observance of your perfection my way, all our delusions into that inexistent lightness of being, enduring three or four days adrift on the tiny room of much monotony, and estrangement, but wonder your way, I still can remember your face on the pillow all covered with joy… and tears… both out of bounds, “cheers” down for... You never were, I barely am. But no one could ever touch us.
Alone in the dark of a room, tired of hearing that you and I must exist to gear whatever, or vanish into being that lively we won’t be up to keep up with, and so I run away from you and out of my own nothings. Your (non-)existent smiles at me, they always were that vivid; all those as vague as much as spatial and temporal and bodily sensed whistles you used to blow to my heart turned my reckless misery into giving myself in to love – of dwelling within your pale imaginary face melting into drops of motifs with their colored-grey brushes on-theme – our plans, my deliriums, your evanescence. We died in circles. Yet we never will be. “Making plans for tomorrow, what shall we do?”
That Shadowland made me fictionize you. You flew me to the core. I stumbled over the words. They missed me. I’m a fool, don’t even know how to misunderstand the suitable. I never had an eye spread open enough, or too much lost, to even say: “I like you dressed in white.” Or apart from. Incongruent.
A serious crash? They do not exist at all. If yes, only forged by anyone who has nothing to do with you, and me. Is it overly crude? The pity and the pendulum. A story. A lovely in-between space. No one ever touched us. But you never will… be. I would always… play of dreaming nonsense. The silence. And my insufficient language. I don’t love you for your wreckage, your professed hate, your graveyard pair of pants. My many reasons, treasons, and painted lies – all this verges on a black hole of dazed steps into nothings. But this is what makes me alive. Breathing tum-tum’s inside. L is but a dream. We are but a dream. And dreams, but something exceedingly crude rekindled to dismantle you and me.
This is the way it goes. The Kafkaesque(s). Making plans for today, for our nevers. But nurturing rabbits… They will linger on. In each and every single parcel of my ruins or (mis)adventures. To be vomited up whenever, or just taking my breath away. Replenishing the source. My rabbits. I feed off them.        

Sunday, April 22, 2012

O Equador das Coisas #1

jornal de literatura e arte
número 1 | issue 1 | mar. 2012

Monday, April 9, 2012

saiu, saiu O Equador das Coisas!

jornal de literatura e arte
jornal de literatura e arte

Orgulhosa, agraciada, e tudo quanto o mais-de – naquele bom do maravilhamento-a-gente, pois que duplamente em tim-tim! É que saiu semana passada, impresso, o nosso O Equador das Coisas, jornal de literatura e arte. E não é pra ir mesmo na comemoração em deliciuras várias? Hein-hein?
Assinamos (digo assim, “editorialmente”, sabem?) este primeiro número do jornal, e as edições daqui-pra-frente todas com prazer sempre-além: Germano Xavier (escritor-poeta e idealizador do projeto), Karime Limon (poeta estadunidense de grandeza sem-palavras-eu-pra, que será nossa correspondente por lá, na Califórnia, pra assuntos poéticos “versing far but also nearby”) e eu-Carol Piva (com uma coluna n’O Equador, vocês vão ver lá, vixi!, e também como designer-diagramadora dele).
A gente está mesmo em festa! O Equador teve, nesse primeiro número, textos incríveis – crônica, resenha, conto, poema e mais... Pressinto água na boca mesmo, você vão v(l)er só! E o segundo número, pra maio, já está sendo preparado...
Os agradecimentos todos e tudo o que de mais lindo enfim dito estão em bastantes ditos pelo Germano-equador, lá em blogue dele. É assim, ó: Em breve, a edição virtual do jornal estará por lá e também por cá, prometo! Por enquanto, pra gente ir vendo a lindeza (ai, como somos mesmo corujinhas, haha!, mas é pro bem, viu?), e porque eu mesma estou aguardando, lindamente ansiosa, me chegarem os exemplares direto da Bahia...
Opa, preciso fazer pausa pra explicar... É que é e vai sendo assim: O Equador é projetado em muitos cantos-mundo diferentes: chega dos colaboradores-escritores; passa pela Califórnia, nos Istatis, de onde nos escreve a Karime; vai pra e vem de lá correndo de novo pra Bahia; chega aqui nas Gerais nossas (que é de onde eu vou “desenhando” ele). Pronto, o jornal segue novamente pra Bahia, que é onde ele tem, digamos, a “morada” dele e de lá também onde ele é impresso.
Então, como eu ia dizendo, estou na expectativa boa pra me chegarem aqui nas Alterosas alguns exemplares impressos que o Germano vai pra mim, sabem? Daí que, chegando, ponho imagens dele, d’O Equador, aqui pra gente também – prometo! Enquanto isso, era o que eu dizia, fui no atrevimento pro bem de pegar essa foto emprestada no blogue do Germano, que é do jornal já impressozinho... Cá está, equador em nós. Sigamos, meus queridos! Tim-tim!

Saturday, February 11, 2012

I can't give you anything but love

to our world ad infinitum


Sarah Vaughan, "Tenderly"  |

I would have written this, and wished I could make my words dance to you like this, irrespective of how not-so-beautifully they would seem due to their inability to measure up to all the delicacy of these words-not-so-mine I bring you today… So I would have expressed you this all if I could… But I can’t. And I don’t even feel that I should. I am not a poet. Nevertheless, I catch myself letting poetry course through my veins, loving it all not only in such materialized forms but also, or especially, as a vast, astounding realm in which you find so much beauty ready to be appreciated, contemplated, touched with hands and eyes and skins – wholly experienced. Amongst a universe of poems I have ever entered in this frantic yet sweet existence of mine, of all us, these lines [by a Bulgarian poetess who remains unknown and not as honored as she really deserves] express better-ad infinitum what I deep-down would like to for now. Elisaveta’s wondrous poems, like this one herein, are a little out of the so-called [and, most of the time, unreasonable] literary canon… and unfortunately, because she is one of the most gifted artists I have ever touched with all my senses – and that’s what I would really like to share with you… In front of her poems, I feel in a complete state of wonder!

Poetry  Elisaveta Bagriana

If my glance were not blest–
with you, inside. Open-eyed to penetrate the darkness,
and to make it fly and dance for me,
grafting wings to it,
to teach it how to see the flower,
to see the future fruit in the a branch still bare,
and to land with an interstellar craft
on a star that twinkles there–
how could my eyes, deprived of such joy last,
if you did not exist?

If you had not pitched my ear–
so that in stillness I can hear
those words, someone whispers to enlist for me
words, that bring both care and cheer,
with nearby or distant voice,
from outer space or next door’s fence,
that reach me when full of remorse–
all that powerful richness of sense
my life would miss,
if you did not exist.

If you had not possessed my heart
from youth until this very hour,
poured all your song and thought in me–
so I might feel my sister’s hand
when I was helpless and alone,
so that your furnace could transmute
sorrow to a spark, into joyous-tones.

In: Penelope of the Twentieth Century. Translated by Brenda Walker, with Valentine Borrisov and Belin Tonchev. Forest Books, 1993.

Saturday, February 4, 2012


[or le goût des choses]


     for Verónica Ch.

     Kindness glides about my house.
     Dame Kindness, she is so nice!
     The blue and red jewels of her   
     rings smoke
     In the windows, the mirrors
     Are filling with smiles.

     What is so real as the cry of 
     a child? […]

     Its crystals a little poultice.
     O kindness, kindness
     Sweetly picking up pieces!...

     Sylvia Plath, “Kindness”

    Girl Sitting on a Bench (1935)
    by Dorothea Lange

that little boy, flustered, sitting on the stairways of any house-maybe-mine, no lucky dawns, empty hands, tormented mouth that tongues but a hollowness of victories he never took for granted; so that hopeless boy, wild feet to reach the very cold outside, perhaps deluding himself – like a fucked-up needleworker who does not have any key to anything less stern in life – into zigzagging a mélange of absurdness and failure, and trying to puzzle over something unbecoming; so he, that little lost, whose eyes were as clumsy as pensive, shouldering such a pain made of a mixture of nothings and tos and fros, he was arrestingly looking into his nails – painted blue… his eyes, [a little fixed, a little tottery], were also – blue; his legs grew in a very unbelievable blue note either, as if he was entirely – blue… and then, when I came closer and asked whys and hows, his nails shining through everything around, [they were really visible, rather than anything else in his frail inexistence], he, that dying-away-for-something boy, he, with some glazing-over eyes, and lips that seemed to touch the asphalt [foreigner-like] scent, he just murmured, as if in secret: “I painted my nails blue to not forget the very color I have inside; my grey body is as usual what makes me wear my sunglasses, colored blue such as my nails, every single time I need to face people and respond to their quests anywhere I stroll in; I still refuse to paint myself without, never mind this whole solitude and acrimony Im stuck with… there may be something smiling to me and just saying you the lost, but you alike, you mine…

Sunday, January 22, 2012

there's a devil waiting outside your door [how much long?]

there's a devil
for Ana Cristina, Eabha, Imen, Setty, and Trian
… in front of the evanescence of a rainbow, imaginary or simultaneously under a petty [bed]room’s light, nightmares being rekindled by him, the Hobbler, leaned over a tree, embroiled by this-or-that cloistered realm – oniric? or simply clear sighted...
… a conviction, here turns out a haughty conviction over his whole misadjusted, proparoxytone route and for something he can neither reaffirm nor take on, while one of that sooth is ineluctably distressed over his own zigzags in life as if he has naturally stumbled into faces he unlikely put up with or could no longer wear…
… springing from his long-standing, erratic “ain’t know what do to”, and blowing up in his no or many guises all those “what is said and what is cursed by”, here is he, the Misfit Man, and his overwhelming traces – bandit hands to put a spell on, twisted eyes to follow up but impossibilities, tripping legs to make him flute even when he only appears to fuck off [and further, much further from – his dreams?]…     

 machine hands , picking up nausea from the ashes he clacks along day by day, usually talk to uncomfortable pockets, which have been promptly designed from above to dance him, the Erratic, and all his other equals to the end of [cries?]…
 dazed eyes , leading to nowhere but that same magic door he steps into, in complete despair, for not being lunatic that much so this all – reality along with its misanthrope cars – makes too much sense and then fetches him by luring him into too much crude bagatelles…
 corrupted legs , tired of walking ahead of himself without, at least for a trap, letting him do what he is supposed to want much more closely – to stroll in the dawn of his own misfortunes… 

 there , in that silent realm,  lie the stories  he intends to unwrap… they are waiting to be written,  paralyzed but not in despair , fresh and  untouched , alone but  close – to his dazed hands, his machine legs, his tired eyes…