Archive for September, 2012


my finest new comma by rs andrade

my finest new comma comma

sister Bell aiming at the latest

 

circus-war and what

is less did you most just

what everyone is smiling

comma

my aunt comma

Lucyhell comma made one

(and

one)off flips proof water

comma zigzags comma

 

my grandma hoping comma

that

 

a trapezoid and I

would flop comma

bravely on the course of air comma

in pair comma

 

selves satisfied comma

happy dreaming

 

bye your grin and eyes

on mine

comma comma

yours  Comma

———

Source: my sweet old etcetera by e. e. cummings

my sweet old etcetera

aunt lucy during the recent

 

war could and what

is more did tell you just

what everybody was fighting

 

for,

my sister

 

Isabel created hundreds

(and

hundreds)of socks not to

mention fleaproof earwarmers

etcetera wristers etcetera, my

mother hoped that

 

i would die etcetera

bravely of course my father used

to become hoarse talking about how it was

a privilege and if only he

could meanwhile my

 

self etcetera lay quietly

in the deep mud et

 

cetera

(dreaming,

et

cetera, of

Your smile

eyes knees and of your Etcetera)

It’s nonsense it

 

me morning is calling Brutus; it

brings a scent of Rome, with

lions, lashes, arenas; he

who sinks in Lena; she

who fakes his harem; mine

with Britain sickles; in

laurel trees to meet; Ching

changing callus pities; me

morning called I lit; and

pure it’s nonsense it

Dreamt sacrifices

 

Listen to me!

I will teach you how to build a cross

and burn.

But who will be the Christ?

Without living bodies the wood is your sacrifice.

 

Once high priests in golden garments

killed animals;

inebriated with sacred blood

reddish wine of the mad;

they sacrificed the pure

– virgo intacta  –

to the Gods.

 

You too can be sacred again;

love your victim;

go back to the forest,

be bare foot, only attention,

jaws claws

and walking naked

stepping the crushed leaves

stalking

(be it an it or an him or an her)

in the midst of the trees in wood

go

and sacrifice.

The blood is yours

Make your own altar

Choose your vestal victim

and kill

inebriated

uncorrupted

 

Listen

and wake up

 

The awkward prey and the fine poacher (from writings in the hospital – September 2012)

 

Once upon a time, a little staling was lost from its pride (you know, every starling has a lion inside). When resting on a shadow, a clear, fresh, windy, reed’s shadow, a man, unexpectedly, crossed his eye with the starling and sat just beside. He was a poacher and smiled like someone who has just met his pride again (you know, every poacher has a Lion inside, and every man too). This shadow rested in peace, somewhere in Asia – Chinese reeds – while grasses, in general, remained green, there and elsewhere. The starling felt afraid for a moment, but, as it was a curious and innocent starling, as it was the curious and innocent poacher, he flew around the man and came back to the resting shadow. And this is a short, sad and dreadful story, because both these two prides, starlings’ and poachers’, only met for instants – life is pretty much lived among similar beings. But I let you guess: Did the starling join his own pride again, of flying starlings with wings, or did the poacher in arms click the Big Bang? Well, there is another option: a falcon entered a room.

 

 

The poem (many options) what do you think?:

 

 

Lost little starling

pure lost from its pride

Smiling poacher

from pride-bang

Both met under a reed’s shadow

meeting prides in Asia green

and both felt pride beside a curious grass

 

Dreadful story

Flying starling away? Miserable poacher?

Big Bang? Wings away?

 

Well… a Falcon entered a room

 

3 Lions inside

similar innocent beings

<p><a href=”http://vimeo.com/49526115″>Cradle of a poem by mefeedyoume 2012</a> from <a href=”http://vimeo.com/user11909581″>Ricardo Andrade</a> on <a href=”http://vimeo.com”>Vimeo</a&gt;.</p>

Cradle of a poem

My ship’s prow, while traversing an emerald sea,

freeing air-bubbles from the foamy (above density),

balancing a cradle, like a mother’s caring  swing,

following the melody of the traversed waves-

My ship’s prow, going ahead to Atlantis.

I was on the deck, sleeveless turtleneck,

dropping sweat, from dry-strand like salty skin

–  Reminiscence of a past simply-water.

I am facing the horizon

agnostic, rational,

with the look of a free-thinker,

alone with a mind breathing through

memorable eyes, on the sea, voyaging

I am seeing and I will tell you the story

  • of “The Arab section of Israel”
  • of  Mary Magdalene

Where once loins were cut into equal parts

and the divide came.

Thereof he found the Earth before sin; uncorrupted.

The one of the little creatures and souls

(aromatic herbs dressed him with vivid colours and birds

alighted on his shoulder, murmuring conversations of birds).

There was no desire in there,

no man-language. I don’t think they ever had any thought.

But he knew them.

How could they love him?

It was the profession of a Natural Religion

Of living beings communing with deaths.

You ask: “why that tiny star? Why a Sun, if not ours?”

He did not know.

“Evil! Evil!” If it wasn’t for them.

He said: “If I’m a man I’m not a zero”

But he kept the remembrance of that action committed on other planet.

Ashamed?

He cried, there were no words for the Lord of Life and of Dead.

He stood quite.

He had become an alchemist. He knew Sirius was a word and a no word.

Sirius was a start he saw and the clouds around, and the path, and “going back home” in itself it was also the star. And then the star was another, maybe another suffering, another love, and life, and another poet reading a poet (and a woman giving herself to the first poet – and to the ones to come).

Because poetry is giving birth.

Listen to me

I will teach you how to build a cross

where you can burn the wood

sacrificing the history of a tree

because trees are mothers

and are sacred

You can then foretell

because that fire is present – sacred

that tree is past – sacred

and the ashes are future – sacred

and you’re an alchemist

and you have visions

And poetry is giving birth from the history of trees

before sin

(Inspired in the story “The Dream Of a Ridiculous Man “ by Dostoyevsky)

R.S.Andrade 2012

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

photo by Robin Amaral

 

 

Revelation 21

“And I saw a new heaven and a new earth”

In jasper clear green, her wand

caressing the curls, carmine, emerald, the eyes

vaporizing seven p l a g u e s in the sapphire like, the blue.

 

She carried them all –

and the fifth, chalcedony,

the tenth, chrysoprase,

to the twelfth,

amethyst (oh

d r u n k e n n e s s

of the Lamb).

 

She carried the mountains

along the twelve gates, twelve the pearls,

she carried the weeds of the sea.

 

Children of Israel

You, of the Steppes, of the Canyon

Gypsies of Venus, People of the Trees

You, maketh ashes from a b o m i n a t i o n

 

“Behold, I make all things new”

The tribes worship it –

Cradle of a form

Alpha, Omega.

“For there shall be no night there”

“Tethered to tedious pities”

 

A mammal-manacled-maniacal,

maniacal-morning-imprisonment,

in beard, short night, a bard

and my coffee;

3 crossed by on the other

side; 2 petit pinkly, 2 bluely capuchins.

They’re not here anymore,

strident children and mummies gone,

innocence, for now.

Fat corpus, clinging furtive glasses,

pending arms, downwards, earth-bound by counterfeited pending watches, sunwards

(the silver glimmer of a sebaceous morning – in sedatives tailored, the dreams)

2 Printemps-delicious-breasts (wearing a yellow-torrid blouse– an Arabic flavour

–          not of the coffee, is just Buondi – they say from Italian; I’d say from second life plantations)

and she’s blond, a summer brunette,

and another holding a mobile-tattoo, I wonder grasping of her muscle

I’m the tethered Sikh, one God; I’m the Sultan, their my concubines.

The pillars of the inner garden

open to the friskiness of commuters.

Is this still

my child’s room? My Lego, when an architect?

My harem, my temple, Maya and Muhammad,

dates, cardamom and a melody – a flute’s melody –

But who’s the snake?

 

There are still

half a cigarette, half a coffe, 2 entire books

on my metal table.

Pause;

Penguin Reference and Translations.

My lighter is red and silvered (just like counterfeited watches from an etherous morning)

Fresh fog around, people worried by.

Comforting my quivering – soft wind

Grey a breeze –

and the Italian artillery ready

Rattle of a caterpillar

NOISE BRUTAL

 

Yes, crowded with voices

“Il mondo è gremito di voci”