The simplest, most common words,
Everyday pocket change,
Transform into the language of another world:
Some sun is enough, the eyes of a poet,
Skimming, to illuminate them.
[ José Saramago, "As palavras são novas", Os poemas possíveis, 1966 ]
Process
May 19th, 2012 § 0 comments § permalink
To the marrow
May 18th, 2012 § 0 comments § permalink
Others will say, in verse, other reasons
maybe more useful, more urgent.
These, here, don’t change nature,
Suspended between two negations.
Now, invent art and manner
Of joining chance and certainty,
Whether it take, or not, an entire life.
Like who gnaws their fingernails raw.
[ José Saramago, "As palavras são novas", Os poemas possíveis, 1966 ]
Rabid Dog (9)
May 17th, 2012 § 2 comments § permalink
I think since the big meeting is in four hours I have time not only to look for the whore but I have time to collect some money too. I turn on the siren and run two red lights, at the second I almost hit a guy who is crossing the street on his bike. I light another Camel but put it out right away. At 10:49 they give the alarm on the police radio for a robbery in Vittorio Emanuele Boulevard. It’s on my way, I’m on duty and less than a kilometer from there. I turn the radio and the siren off, make a U-turn and creep into traffic before the byway. I think about the vendor again and ask myself how the hell a nigger gives a little girl a blowjob. I untwist the cap off the bottle of rum and drink. » Read more «
Dry Poetry
May 16th, 2012 § 0 comments § permalink
I want this poem needless and dry,
Brief snap of bitten stem
Or creaking floor where I don’t dance.
I want to pass beyond with downcast eyes,
Crushed with sorrow and silence,
Because everything is said and I’m tired.
[ José Saramago, "As palavras são novas", Os poemas possíveis, 1966 ]
Past, Present, Future
May 15th, 2012 § 0 comments § permalink
I was. But what I was now I don’t remember:
One thousand layers of dust, veils,
these forty unequal faces,
So marked by time and storm gales.
I am. But what I am is so little:
Frog out of pond, that jumped,
and in that jump, the highest he could,
He the air of another world crushed.
We’ll see, if there’s something to see, what I’ll be:
A face recomposed before the end,
A batrachian song, even raucous,
A life that goes well or misspent.
[ José Saramago, "As palavras são novas", Os poemas possíveis, 1966 ]
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