28 janeiro 2015

Sargaços, de Waly Salomão

Sargaços, de Waly Salomão
Criar é não se adequar à vida como ela é,
Nem tampouco se grudar às lembranças pretéritas
Que não sobrenadam mais.
Nem ancorar à beira-cais estagnado,
Nem malhar a batida bigorna à beira-mágoa.
Nascer não é antes, não é ficar a ver navios,
Nascer é depois, é nadar após se afundar e se afogar.
Braçadas e mais braçadas até perder o fôlego
(Sargaços ofegam o peito opresso),
Bombear gás do tanque de reserva localizado em algum ponto
Do corpo
E não parar de nadar,
Nem que se morra na praia antes de alcançar o mar.
Plasmar
bancos de areias, recifes de corais, ilhas, arquipélagos, baías,
espumas e salitres,
ondas e maresias.
Mar de sargaços
Nadar, nadar, nadar e inventar a viagem, o mapa,
o astrolábio de sete faces,
O zumbido dos ventos em redemoinho, o leme, as velas, as cordas,
Os ferros, o júbilo e o luto.
Encasquetar-se na captura da canção que inventa Orfeu
Ou daquela outra que conduz ao mar absoluto.
Só e outros poemas
Soledades
Solitude, récif, étoile.
Através dos anéis escancarados pelos velhos horizontes
Parir,
desvelar,
desocultar novos horizontes.
Mamar o leite primevo, o colostro, da Via Láctea.
E, mormente,
remar contra a maré numa canoa furada
Somente
para martelar um padrão estóico-tresloucado
De desaceitar o naufrágio.
Criar é se desacostumar do fado fixo
E ser arbitrário.
Sendo os remos imateriais
(Remos figurados no ar pelos círculos das palavras.)

23 janeiro 2015

There could be love somewhere

Flowers blowing through the wind 
I can feel it from the skin 
while riders feel free in their bikes 
the girl with powerful eyes come alone 
bombshell-supernova-hot spring 
maybe is just autumn’s breath 

come dance with me.
come dance with me. 
we can ride through the night 
watch the time as it goes by 

listening to my folk music
dreaming of great guitars 
listening to our soul come easy 
through the night 


there could be love somewhere. 

CASTRO

15 janeiro 2015

"Howl", de Allen Ginsberg

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked,
dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix,
angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night,
who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat up smoking in the supernatural darkness of cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities contemplating jazz,
who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and saw Mohammedan angels staggering on tenement roofs illuminated,
who passed through universities with radiant cool eyes hallucinating Arkansas and Blake-light tragedy among the scholars of war,
who were expelled from the academies for crazy & publishing obscene odes on the windows of the skull,
who cowered in unshaven rooms in underwear, burning their money in wastebaskets and listening to the Terror through the wall,
who got busted in their pubic beards returning through Laredo with a belt of marijuana for New York,
who ate fire in paint hotels or drank turpentine in Paradise Alley, death, or purgatoried their torsos night after night
with dreams, with drugs, with waking nightmares, alcohol and cock and endless balls,
incomparable blind streets of shuddering cloud and lightning in the mind leaping toward poles of Canada & Paterson, illuminating all the motionless world of Time between,

Peyote solidities of halls, backyard green tree cemetery dawns, wine drunkenness over the rooftops, storefront boroughs of teahead joyride neon blinking traffic light, sun and moon and tree vibrations in the roaring winter dusks of Brooklyn, ashcan rantings and kind king light of mind,
who chained themselves to subways for the endless ride from Battery to holy Bronx on benzedrine until the noise of wheels and children brought them down shuddering mouth-wracked and battered bleak of brain all drained of brilliance in the drear light of Zoo,
who sank all night in submarine light of Bickford’s floated out and sat through the stale beer afternoon in desolate Fugazzi’s, listening to the crack of doom on the hydrogen jukebox,
who talked continuously seventy hours from park to pad to bar to Bellevue to museum to the Brooklyn Bridge,
a lost battalion of platonic conversationalists jumping down the stoops off fire escapes off windowsills off Empire State out of the moon,
yacketayakking screaming vomiting whispering facts and memories and anecdotes and eyeball kicks and shocks of hospitals and jails and wars,
whole intellects disgorged in total recall for seven days and nights with brilliant eyes, meat for the Synagogue cast on the pavement,
who vanished into nowhere Zen New Jersey leaving a trail of ambiguous picture postcards of Atlantic City Hall,
suffering Eastern sweats and Tangerian bone-grindings and migraines of China under junk-withdrawal in Newark’s bleak furnished room,
who wandered around and around at midnight in the railroad yard wondering where to go, and went, leaving no broken hearts,
who lit cigarettes in boxcars boxcars boxcars racketing through snow toward lonesome farms in grandfather night,
who studied Plotinus Poe St. John of the Cross telepathy and bop kabbalah because the cosmos instinctively vibrated at their feet in Kansas,
who loned it through the streets of Idaho seeking visionary indian angels who were visionary indian angels,
who thought they were only mad when Baltimore gleamed in supernatural ecstasy,
who jumped in limousines with the Chinaman of Oklahoma on the impulse of winter midnight streetlight smalltown rain,
who lounged hungry and lonesome through Houston seeking jazz or sex or soup, and followed the brilliant Spaniard to converse about America and Eternity, a hopeless task, and so took ship to Africa,
who disappeared into the volcanoes of Mexico leaving behind nothing but the shadow of dungarees and the lava and ash of poetry scattered in fireplace Chicago,
who reappeared on the West Coast investigating the FBI in beards and shorts with big pacifist eyes sexy in their dark skin passing out incomprehensible leaflets,
who burned cigarette holes in their arms protesting the narcotic tobacco haze of Capitalism,
who distributed Supercommunist pamphlets in Union Square weeping and undressing while the sirens of Los Alamos wailed them down, and wailed down Wall, and the Staten Island ferry also wailed,
who broke down crying in white gymnasiums naked and trembling before the machinery of other skeletons,
who bit detectives in the neck and shrieked with delight in policecars for committing no crime but their own wild cooking pederasty and intoxication,
who howled on their knees in the subway and were dragged off the roof waving genitals and manuscripts,
who let themselves be fucked in the ass by saintly motorcyclists, and screamed with joy,
who blew and were blown by those human seraphim, the sailors, caresses of Atlantic and Caribbean love,
who balled in the morning in the evenings in rosegardens and the grass of public parks and cemeteries scattering their semen freely to whomever come who may,
who hiccuped endlessly trying to giggle but wound up with a sob behind a partition in a Turkish Bath when the blond & naked angel came to pierce them with a sword,

who lost their loveboys to the three old shrews of fate the one eyed shrew of the heterosexual dollar the one eyed shrew that winks out of the womb and the one eyed shrew that does nothing but sit on her ass and snip the intellectual golden threads of the craftsman’s loom,

who copulated ecstatic and insatiate with a bottle of beer a sweetheart a package of cigarettes a candle and fell off the bed, and continued along the floor and down the hall and ended fainting on the wall with a vision of ultimate cunt and come eluding the last gyzym of consciousness,

who sweetened the snatches of a million girls trembling in the sunset, and were red eyed in the morning but prepared to sweeten the snatch of the sunrise, flashing buttocks under barns and naked in the lake,

who went out whoring through Colorado in myriad stolen night-cars, N.C., secret hero of these poems, cocksman and Adonis of Denver – joy to the memory of his innumerable lays of girls in empty lots & diner backyards, moviehouses’ rickety rows, on mountaintops in caves or with gaunt waitresses in familiar roadside lonely petticoat upliftings & especially secret gas-station solipsisms of johns, & hometown alleys too,

who faded out in vast sordid movies, were shifted in dreams, woke on a sudden Manhattan, and picked themselves up out of basements hung-over with heartless Tokay and horrors of Third Avenue iron dreams & stumbled to unemployment offices,
who walked all night with their shoes full of blood on the snowbank docks waiting for a door in the East River to open to a room full of steam-heat and opium,

who created great suicidal dramas on the apartment cliff-banks of the Hudson under the wartime blur floodlight of the moon & their heads shall be crowned with laurel in oblivion,

who ate the lamb stew of the imagination or digested the crab at the muddy bottom of the rivers of Bowery,
who wept at the romance of the streets with their pushcarts full of onions and bad music,
who sat in boxes breathing in the darkness under the bridge, and rose up to build harpsichords in their lofts,
who coughed on the sixth floor of Harlem crowned with flame under the tubercular sky surrounded by orange crates of theology,
who scribbled all night rocking and rolling over lofty incantations which in the yellow morning were stanzas of gibberish,
who cooked rotten animals lung heart feet tail borsht & tortillas dreaming of the pure vegetable kingdom,
who plunged themselves under meat trucks looking for an egg,
who threw their watches off the roof to cast their ballot for Eternity outside of Time, & alarm clocks fell on their heads every day for the next decade,

who cut their wrists three times successively unsuccessfully, gave up and were forced to open antique stores where they thought they were growing old and cried,

who were burned alive in their innocent flannel suits on Madison Avenue amid blasts of leaden verse & the tanked-up clatter of the iron regiments of fashion & the nitroglycerine shrieks of the fairies of advertising & the mustard gas of sinister intelligent editors, or were run down by the drunken taxicabs of Absolute Reality,

who jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge this actually happened and walked away unknown and forgotten into the ghostly daze of Chinatown soup alleyways & firetrucks, not even one free beer,

who sang out of their windows in despair, fell out of the subway window, jumped in the filthy Passaic, leaped on negroes, cried all over the street, danced on broken wineglasses barefoot smashed phonograph records of nostalgic European 1930s German jazz finished the whiskey and threw up groaning into the bloody toilet, moans in their ears and the blast of colossal steamwhistles,
who barreled down the highways of the past journeying to each other’s hotrod-Golgotha jail-solitude watch or Birmingham jazz incarnation,who drove crosscountry seventytwo hours to find out if I had a vision or you had a vision or he had a vision to find out Eternity,

who journeyed to Denver, who died in Denver, who came back to Denver & waited in vain, who watched over Denver & brooded & loned in Denver and finally went away to find out the Time, & now Denver is lonesome for her heroes,

who fell on their knees in hopeless cathedrals praying for each other’s salvation and light and breasts, until the soul illuminated its hair for a second,
who crashed through their minds in jail waiting for impossible criminals with golden heads and the charm of reality in their hearts who sang sweet blues to Alcatraz,

who retired to Mexico to cultivate a habit, or Rocky Mount to tender Buddha or Tangiers to boys or Southern Pacific to the black locomotive or Harvard to Narcissus to Woodlawn to the daisychain or grave,
who demanded sanity trials accusing the radio of hypnotism & were left with their insanity & their hands & a hung jury,
who threw potato salad at CCNY lecturers on Dadaism and subsequently presented themselves on the granite steps of the madhouse with shaven heads and harlequin speech of suicide, demanding instantaneous lobotomy,

and who were given instead the concrete void of insulin Metrazol electricity hydrotherapy psychotherapy occupational therapy pingpong & amnesia,
who in humorless protest overturned only one symbolic pingpong table, resting briefly in catatonia,
returning years later truly bald except for a wig of blood, and tears and fingers, to the visible madman doom of the wards of the madtowns of the East,

Pilgrim State’s Rockland’s and Greystone’s foetid halls, bickering with the echoes of the soul, rocking and rolling in the midnight solitude-bench dolmen-realms of love, dream of life a nightmare, bodies turned to stone as heavy as the moon,

with mother finally ******, and the last fantastic book flung out of the tenement window, and the last door closed at 4 A.M. and the last telephone slammed at the wall in reply and the last furnished room emptied down to the last piece of mental furniture, a yellow paper rose twisted on a wire hanger in the closet, and even that imaginary, nothing but a hopeful little bit of hallucination -

ah, Carl, while you are not safe I am not safe, and now you’re really in the total animal soup of time -

and who therefore ran through the icy streets obsessed with a sudden flash of the alchemy of the use of the ellipsis catalogue a variable measure and the vibrating plane,

who dreamt and made incarnate gaps in Time & Space through images juxtaposed, and trapped the archangel of the soul between 2 visual images and joined the elemental verbs and set the noun and dash of consciousness together jumping with sensation of Pater Omnipotens Aeterna Deus

to recreate the syntax and measure of poor human prose and stand before you speechless and intelligent and shaking with shame, rejected yet confessing out the soul to conform to the rhythm of thought in his naked and endless head,

the madman bum and angel beat in Time, unknown, yet putting down here what might be left to say in time come after death,

and rose reincarnate in the ghostly clothes of jazz in the goldhorn shadow of the band and blew the suffering of America’s naked mind for love into an eli eli lamma lamma sabacthani saxophone cry that shivered the cities down to the last radio

with the absolute heart of the poem of life butchered out of their own bodies good to eat a thousand years.

Áudio: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WkNp56UZax4

14 janeiro 2015

Quem Somos Nós?

Por que continuamos recriando a mesma realidade? Por que continuamos tendo os mesmos relacionamentos? Por que continuamos tendo os mesmos empregos repetidamente? Tudo isso porque acreditamos não termos controle algum, achamos que o mundo externo é que nos influencia. A ciência moderna, entretanto, nos diz que o que acontece dentro de nós é o que vai criar o que acontece fora. (Trecho do filme: Quem Somos Nós?) 




Fazia frio no tilintar dos sinos dos ventos na janela quando descemos até a piscina. O vento apaziguava um dia de manhã calorosa que trocou suas cores por acizentados de nuvens e um nublado poético. Na piscina, um senhor de porte atlético, silenciava o ir e vir da água que misturada ao seu corpo, dançava ao tom de suas mãos. Cumprimentei-lhe e começamos a conversar. Ele, físico, engenheiro e cineasta. Uma enciclopédia humana com a doçura dos ignorantes, tom de voz acalentador. Conversava sobre a vida sob o prisma dos quarks, elétrons e prótons. “Você vê esta cadeira? Quando você deixar de observá-la, ela não existirá mais. Somos co-criadores”. Falamos de amor, espiritualidade, mercado de capitais e os “donos do mundo”, a existência de vida fora da terra, quarta dimensão, teoria das cordas, teoria de Tudo. Com os olhos fixos as feições daquele senhor, percebi sua pupila dilatada, seu gesticular ensimesmado e uma cicatriz em formato de círculo entre os olhos. Havia outra ainda maior no meio do peito, como se tivessem lhe arrancado o coração. De milionário para um consultor classe média, disse que sentiu-se aliviado sem o peso da “matéria”. “Até um quark de partícula tem consciência. Neste matrix, somos ciborgues e não despertamos. É um Blade Runner”. Em muitos momentos sua fala se misturava a um Armagedon romantizado, cheio de informações precisas e contextualizadas. Começou a chover e ele se despediu rapidamente. “Moro embaixo de você, disse. Não me acostumo a viver sozinho. Não entendo o mundo de hoje, todos moram só”. Antes mesmo do fechar da porta do elevador, ele olhou mais uma vez pra mim e disse "Quem é você? Você vai me responder: sou professora, sou mulher... mas, o que é você?". 

E eu mesma voltei ao meu apartamento vazio. Abri um livro, fiz um café. Li um romance ambientado na II Guerra. Tentei dormir, mas me ocupei de relembrar as falas do senhor 72. Cochilei, perdi o sono. Uma mensagem no celular “Estou grávida”. E uma amiga desesperada às três da manhã. Transou uma única vez sem preservativo em Paris. Uma única vez. Trocamos algumas palavras, ela se acalmou. Muitos pensamentos vagaram na minha cabeça às quatro da manhã. Você é um dos mais frequentes. E é por isso que te escrevo. É por isso que me despeço. 

MASNAVI 

10 janeiro 2015

Green eyes in the blue sky

O sol aquece toda dor de amor
no alvorecer das manhãs solitárias 
Nas palavras de qualquer escritor 

Nas memórias que tergiversam 
brincando de saudade acompanhada 

Na escuta dos pássaros, 
No passar das nuvens acrobáticas 
No cair da chuva
No cheiro de entardecer 

Tudo se move.
No compasso mais lento-adágio sostenuto 
cambaleia a vida com sua sinceridade inexorável. 

Castro