Showing posts with label Black and White. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Black and White. Show all posts

Sunday, October 12, 2014

Hace años, estuvimos allí

en silencio.
"No voy hacerte daño, no llores." Sin embargo, estuvimos allí por horas, tan lejos del muelle, mis ojos en tus manos, y hasta hoy esos silencios siguiéndome a traer jardines inesperados.

"La echo en falta," y una lluvia que no ha partido jamás. yo qué sé.

De rodillas en el arriate, esperandote pulsar y un chasquido, tantos años, tu rostro medio escondido detrás de la máquina. "Si, acércate a mi. No voy hacerte daño. jamás."

Monday, August 11, 2014

Silently

And I woke up when you smiled.
Standing up I followed curves on the river,
I phoned long distance each night,
I heard your voice on the radio, in the speaker phone at work,
behind sirens on friday nights.

we danced in the kitchen uncountable tangos,
innumerable salsas and sambas and other tunes
of rocky mountains high.

We wept when baby left,
and we sat the table for afternoon coffees,
tea and biscuits: old friends. Lovers.
Silently, now. Silently.

Sunday, July 6, 2014

Berkeley

No, I don't.

A few blocks from there, the smell of freshly caught fish. Ships on docks.
"This morning of thin air, this air entering your nose like a  jelly mixture. Cold. A day without birds singing, lost in their flights, trying to reach a south. Sur. Sul.
The word for south in Spanish a rumbling drum: Sur.
South: it’s a ship docking.
South: an old bandoneon.
South: A sailor that knew how to paint. His hands on you.
South: Your sailor. Your wharf.
Where are you, Sur ?
Where am I ?"

mais do texto, aqui

Saturday, February 12, 2011

Arriving

"Vediamo, ancora un'altra volta," lui mi diceva. Each time a renewed solitude, all these returns summer after summer and impossible golondrinas flying around mid-morning.
Un deseo de Gardel y sus tangos y Mariana y sus dedos en el acordeón: 'la fisarmonica,' diceva. E oggi il cello soprattutto zitto.

Altri estati.

Today, my shoes worn out, silently. The house not more than a mirage, layer over layer over years over my grandmother's sleepless nights and all the vast ocean they negotiated before arriving here.

If I sit still I'll fulfill my journey: and in time will become at home, again.

Sunday, September 12, 2010

Birds

- "If you ask me that, yes, I know how to swim, I tell you. And yes, I could cross this cove, teeth clutching a rope, drenched clothes, late night. I could. But for what? I have now, my friend, nowhere to go back to."

- "And how about all those dreams of mangoes, freshly caught sapotis, graviola juice sticking to your lips in various sweetnesses and four o'clock afternoons?"

- "I lost them, you know, I can't even write about these, anymore."

Tuesday, September 7, 2010

Half way through

Pulava aqueles degraus num jogo que conhecia desde a muito tempo. Saltando o branco esmaecido de cada um, imaginando estórias de passos sobre aqueles traços escuros que se espalhavam pelo mármore trazido de longe no lombo de burros - Hermínia lhe contara um dia - e postas aqui num suadeiro de homens levantando e talhando e puxando e assentando cada pedra escada acima. Sem intervalo para mates. Seu avô se ocupava.

Séculos atrás - Hermínia contava revirando os olhos azuis e de vez em quando puxando o cabelo, liso e já quase branco, para trás da orelha. Sorrindo, no canto da boca, olhava enigmatica a me dizer que " asi como Borges hace tiempos, yo aún creía la ciudad eterna y perdiame, lo ves, en un Palermo que no ha existido jamás."

Monday, June 14, 2010

Silêncios

Quando Emereciano chegou ali pela primeira vez, era noite de frio. O lugar não tinha mais de seiscentos moradores mas a proximidade do porto garantia algum movimento. Descer a serra era empreitada de muitos dias, molhados em águas torrenciais nos meses de chuva. Mata quase virgem onde abundavam jequitibás, guapuruvas, num mundo de troncos e cipós. O cheiro das orquídeas impressionando tropeiros, e o rugido de onças em noites de lua.

Nas curvas do caminho, clareiras abertas aqui e ali na picada descendo, os olhos se enchiam na visão do mar. Águas que curavam, diziam uns, as muitas ondas.

Trazendo carga das minas, Emereciano voltava levando sal. Fez isso por muito tempo, descendo em noites de lua. Durante os anos, enquanto esperava, se acomodava no largo da igreja do Rosário em silêncio. Fumando.

Sunday, June 13, 2010

"Foi por amar que ela se amasiou com a tal solidão do lugar..."

Os anos de homilías, as preçes, deixavam marcas nas pessoas e nas coisas.
Depois que o café foi embora, enquanto os morros da região podiam enfim reclamar outra vez o que lhes havia sempre pertencido, fechando caminhos, cercando a cidade alimentada por fantasmas de escravos e de viajantes de tropas, os que ficaram se refletiam em sermões. Recitando hinos, repetindo sacramentos, tocando em solo santificado como uma ponte para a salvação, agarravam-se a poderes que não podiam ver.
E ali, por tanto tempo, ela esperou.

Tuesday, June 8, 2010

Thursday, June 3, 2010

Strawberries plantation


Depois da guerra, eu sonho com um campo de morangos. Vou fazer no asfalto mesmo minha horta, e um dia, amanhecendo, verrei morangos crescendo vermelhos cor de sangue em frente à minha janela.

Se eu não trouxesse minha própria terra, em quantos anos esse asfalto viraria um jardim?

Mais do Mesmo - sem os morangos

Cadê Alice?

Thursday, May 27, 2010

De um outro patio

Marianna tinha perdido as chaves de casa.Olhava do alto dos viadutos carros e pessoas la embaixo. Ouvia suas respiracoes, suas saudades. Sem asas, pensava algumas vezes se doeria cair, largando-se dali concreto abaixo, pela janela sem vidro.

Em tardes de sol e nuvens era mais facil persistir. Resistir. E revoar com os olhos, acompanhando pássaros impossíveis, pardais açodados, potes de plantas vazios nas janelas dos vizinho.

Lembrou de impossíveis amoreiras, do cajueiro em frente à casa, de amêndoas nas calçadas. De um céu azul sem nuvens. Daquele calor.

Saturday, May 1, 2010

Windmill farm

it was summertime when they crossed that border. half-empty packs on their backs, they came across the windmill farm. not a graveyard. Instead, a promise of lighter mornings behind those hills. Brighter, these dreamed promises appeared, although embroidered in much longing for a land they would not see again in their lifetime.

Friday, April 2, 2010

Cameos


Leonora had seen winters there, all right. impatiently waiting, she had seen snow falling for longer than she could remember. All those months during which the lake turned into ice and ancestral paths were reestablished between the island and the house. Ice skating, illegal fur traders, bricks heating bed covers, and the view from the balcony, which had now grown interrupted.

Long evenings, she thought, get me down. I wish I could sit outside and Rashid, ah, Rashid, would arrive at once. Bringing news of my sister. A photograph, perhaps just enough to show her face once more, swimming miles at that time of year on warmer lands. Here, a decaying doll silently longing for her return.

But what, now that the weather is warm and Rashid is gone? Through my opened window, I think of freshly squeezed lemons and of a Martinique I am not about to see again. And of Marion.

Lenora's mind is failing. Her age weights on her body, frail fingers pressing long gone ivory keys in the afternoons. Most of the time she forgets things. Except for intervals of clarity each time growing shorter, balcony, island, lake, floral arrangements, the world, are all involved on a ever thickening haze. A slumber  she has learned to compare to sleepwalking, and which grows heavier with time.

Dressed in lace and silk, She wears cameos and keeps her hair tightly held on the back.

Sometimes she thinks about the children she did not have, on how they would have looked lovely running on the balcony, or through the grassed patch leading to the lake. Perhaps - no, certainly - they would have been as beautiful and charming as those Marion had had. Or did not she? Perhaps Marion did not have children either after all, although, like herself, she had married many years ago, soon after they left the boarding school. And then, also as Lenora, outlived her husband.

Perhaps she also kept the pictures they took during the school years. All those pictures which, although faded, still filled the room with perfume and slowed down her heart a little. As if despite all these years it could still wiggle and weight, gently expanding and irradiating warmth through her body.

"Yes," Lenora thinks sometimes, during rarefied moments of clarity, "we could have had beautiful children."    

Sunday, March 21, 2010

do rés do chão


Ainda cheguei a ver antes da queda, no segundo imediato. E depois, enquanto acordava lento. Meio-dia de sol e o cheiro de terra mijada, curral de gado, açoiteras penduradas nos alpendres. Aqui o gosto de barro seco na boca, o mundo transformado em ervas ressecadas: pleno agosto. A bicicleta retorcida, o corpo dolorido. De longe, o verde daqueles campos turvava. Entre silêncios de chocalhos, meu avô nem me ouviu morrer.

marbles, fables, and other paths


He worked for years behind those walls. Silently, landed pins on shoe soles, tied leather knots, crunched peanuts during burning seasons. I had never walked by those factory walls before. All those water lilies impossibly blooming in august, under no sun to be seen. Silently.
Giaccomo had a wife and three daughters. Arrived there before the war, silently, weary, but holding some hope. Manzinni, se chiamava il padre suo. Era morto da anni. Had not ever dreamed he would meet Marta, and so soon, after all.

Saturday, March 20, 2010

four o'clock, before the rain

each day waitin' for the rain. The silence of lilies and daffodils entertaining insects. We were all at the tipping point of the cape: further west there was only water.