La tarde, acribillada de ventanas flota sobre los hilos del teléfono, y entre los atravesaños inversos de la hora se cuelgan los dioses de las máquinas. Su juventud maravillosa estalló una mañana entre mis dedos. y en el agua vacía de los espejos, naufragaron los rostros olvidados. Oh la pobre ciudad sindicalista andamiada de hurras … More VRBE III
Another unfinished paper I have is on Tropicalismo. I am reminded of it by this post. I do not know that it fits into what I am doing now but I should finish it. The text is quite interesting; it got out of my control and Tropicalismo began to look like the boom novel; that … More Tropicália
Revista de poesia e arte contemporânea. Axé.
Lo que había No hay riesgo. En la hondura se apaga la ansiedad, se enciende el sinsentido. No hay hilo que seguir Pero ¿a dónde?, ¿por qué?, y la salida: otrora atrae como la luna, apenas picajosa la fisura por donde el riesgo ¿corre? Hay una luz quizás y una pregunta… De otro modo mejor … More Daniel Sada
‘THE SOUL IS A NUMBER MOVING BY ITSELF’ –Aristotle, De Anima It is not cold at the top of the stairs. The years strike like radium drops. There is a little door, there is a little lock, There are many good machines whose purposes are lost. In the plump and tidy cabinets The red drawers … More Monica Ferrell
The Black Cottage We chanced in passing by that afternoon To catch it in a sort of special picture Among tar-banded ancient cherry trees, Set well back from the road in rank lodged grass, The little cottage we were speaking of, A front with just a door between two windows, Fresh painted by the shower … More Robert Frost
La cólera que quiebra al hombre en niños, que quiebra al niño, en pájaros iguales, y al pájaro, después en huevecillos; la cólera del pobre tiene un aceite contra dos vinagres. La cólera que al árbol quiebra en hojas, a la hoja en botones desiguales y al botón, en ranuras telescópicas; la cólera del pobre … More Explicar…
From 1912, when he was 22. The improbable, or all too probable title is “The last excursion of a tuberculosis patient, through the city, by electric tram.” O último passeio de um tuberculoso, pela cidade, de bonde. dos salões abertos saem pianos enxotados a abanar suas caudas há luzes que brilham do farol lugar-nenhum há … More Oswald de Andrade’s first poem
São Paulo! comoção da minha vida… Os meus amores são flores feitas de original… Arlequinal!… Traje de losangos… Cinza e Ouro… Luz e bruma… Forno e inverno morno… Elegâncias sutis sem escândalos, sem ciúmes… Perfumes de Paria… Arys! Bofetadas líricas no Trianon… Algodoal! São Paulo! comoção de minha vida… Galicismo a berrar nos desertos da … More In which São Paulo is a “Gallicism bellowing in the deserts of America”
A friend back home took this picture today, and I would like to be meditating like that man. In winter the ocean looks golden when the sun is low. Here is Chapman’s Homer, upon looking into which Keats felt like Balboa or as he said, stout Cortez upon first staring at the Pacific, “Silent, upon … More Balboa, or stout Cortez
