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Home is returning to the known

– it’s all that is warm, secure, trusty and other comforting words

 

It just stands there, waiting,

whatever the troubles of the day

 

I’ve many homes: a real home, with walls, and sofa, and all the necessary fixtures and fittings

and other, more poetic, homes: a cigarette, a camera, a computer, books, some websites, animals, even people

and more

 

But any home can be disrupted

– coldness, insecurity, mischievousness

lurking about in the shadows of the night

 

Yes, I’ve many fears: losing my home,

and others, like unhealthy cigarettes, hidden cameras, some websites, books, animals, people

and more

 

ready to disrupt

disrupt

disrupt

disrupt

disrupt

disrupted, upted, upted, upted

 

Home

for now

let me return and slumber under

 

for: dverse – http://dversepoets.com/2014/08/12/poetics-homecoming/

Today’s war

Today I’m going to write a sober poem

Call things by their names, name a poet: Confucius

Yes, not

confused. Confused?

 

But as I said, today I didn’t drink.

It’s true that

Israel is fighting the Hamas, and some planes have crashed.

That’s for sure.

 

And today was one of those in which I said no to a girl.

A simple girl that cried and was about to breaking my heart.

But I was the one who broke a heart. Today I abandoned a girl in exchange of a safer life.

Today I chose security. Am I sorry about that?

 

But let’s talk about the word “today”. Let’s take some advantage from the fact of being sober.

As you know, today had 24 hours and countable minutes and seconds. Today had a sunrise and a sunset. Somewhere it rained. People ate and drunk and peed. Animals too, that’s for sure.

Today had its date on a few different calendars, and its proper moon, as it’s proper for every day.

Today had its alpha and its omega. Yes, today began and finished. Smart people wrote poems and the rest of us simply breathed, and did all the other ordinary things I mentioned before. Etc. etc.

 

In fact, we know many things about today.

 

But one can ask: is there something special about today?

And then all the selves that populate this planet take their sit:

Today I married. Today my father died. Today I got a job. Today I fucked my shoulder. Today I wrote a poem… Well, it doesn’t really matter.

 

I DON’T GIVE A DAMN.

 

What matters is this sober poem in homage to the innocent victims of WAR.

A sober war

bien sûr

qu’il y a…

Homo significans

 

I draw a form from the closet

– it doesn’t stand for itself.

I look at the signifier – I touch it, I smell it –

and suddenly the signified raises in the conscience.

I take the concept for the form. I reach the sign.

Yes, I drew a question out from the closet

– it didn’t question itself.

I looked at the question mark – I felt its weigh, I measured it –

and finally the question emerged clear.

Did I reach the problem of the form,

did I understand the sign of the question?

Did? I?

I’ve waked, but I’m still sleeping

I watch myself in the mirror, but I don’t know why

Vegetating, in a dream that floats over two worlds

That invade each other

I’m confused with this dawning

With the serene dew outside

With this body at my side

Weary

I struggle at becoming

Benumbed in this morbid recess

Wondering about this unreal woman

Who unveils another reality: a far off landscape

Of old trees and flowers

Where my being wandered once

But the wind sweeps the fumes, and the ashes of death

That don’t belong that forest

That forest like a vision

Of a disillusioned soul

The blend of time

they’re killing softly the humid trees,

following orders from Mr. Smith

who urinates in the loo” – that was the sentence

chimpanzees D

Rwanda L

stop F

– letters inquire about the States

of mind -Unite!

Since the 70’s,

when I was born,

my casual quotidian

News has changed,”

from fun to less fun to depressing to non-existent.

I’m short today. I’ve read in the New York Times that both parties rush,

and that was kind of ineffable (indifferent, if you wish).

Yes, there are subtitles in my writing, because there’s no real existence…

but yesterday yes, I was happy

watching the trees while it was raining in the city,

I was returning to the question, even dull, I admit

I’m able to watch the innocent call of the night. A blind step, born from desperation

in the end, my umbilicus preserved

and that’s!

XLIV

XLIV

By Alberto Caeiro

Translated by Ricardo Andrade

I wake – night –

no, only my watch-night

and an outside

nature, I don’t feel

– night, night, night.

my room is a dark thing

obscuring the lost whiteness of the walls – night.

outside:

quietness

nothing – and the night –

or only the watch-night, night, night

over earth and sky, sky, sky and night

night.

what does it mean?

– watching the watch-night

– night night night

let me smile

with the night, filling the night

which is huge and small and black

night

watching the watch-night

what does it mean? the smallness of the night

night night night

watching

Original poem

XLIV

By Alberto Caeiro

Acordo de noite subitamente,

E o meu relógio ocupa a noite toda.

Não sinto a Natureza lá fora.

O meu quarto é uma coisa escura com paredes vagamente brancas.

Lá fora há um sossego como se nada existisse.

Só o relógio prossegue o seu ruído.

E esta pequena coisa de engrenagens que está em cima da minha mesa

Abafa toda a existência da terra e do céu…

Quase que me perco a pensar o que isto significa,

Mas estaco, e sinto-me sorrir na noite com os cantos da boca,

Porque a única coisa que o meu relógio simboliza ou significa

Enchendo com a sua pequenez a noite enorme

É a curiosa sensação de encher a noite enorme

Com a sua pequenez…

wirklich

really, when you pick a slowly murdered remembrance out from the closet – there, there where you hide the clothes of infancy, of, of the little lead soldiers and ballerinas, of, of the white ponies and trucks, when, when you were still in love, like the morning – you find the paralyzed turn, turn, your life took, out of a wool your mother made, when, when you shuffled the fate’s cards and decided, decided, to leave the party of the fatuous and follow, follow the siren, the siren, of silence, of silence, of silence.

Ricardo Andrade
mefeedyoume 2014
for dverse

http://dversepoets.com/2014/01/30/form-for-all-prosepoetry/

small

Ich bin das Alpha und das Omega, der Anfang und das Ende, der Erste und der Letzte.

There’s always

a beginning

for such a thing.

Trivial, as the belle blonde of my dreams

is a dream.

I know, it’s not sophisticated stuff I’m telling, but it’s an Erste, I suppose.

When you don’t have nothing special, and you just step

because it’s a one way trajectory.

(like a bullet reaching a zenith kill, whatever that is)

Sacha was a dreamer (and she was blonde).

On that day she only wanted to step:

a mountain, stairs, a Scottish hill – that particular building.

Precisely, only step the mat and ring the bell.

I don’t know how I looked.

I was working late and tired.

She stepped inside and laid on a couch where Myrian used to sleep

(Myrian, a pedigree bitch that holds a few bones in heaven, at the moment).

I imagine I had nothing good to say and I only stared at her.

That was my beginning.

For her it was different.

She was in the middle of a voyage,

wondering through something I cannot explain.

There are people who are born mature

without the going through of seasons and of the sun.

She was such a person –

precarious but acute.

I guess I’m just a bloke.

But she cared for me.

And that was our beginning.

It doesn’t matter much what has happened.

It was an alpha towards an omega.

And that’s what I have to say.

Pretty things are stupid and they scare cultured fellows.

Feels sick admitting the banal casuistic of the affair- but an omega and an alpha are

small things…. just like das Ende.

Beat with me

Beat with me

 

Frantic snail of the libidinous watermelon

Whirling crystal of the blonde’s breast

Hanging colt of the bearded Protestant

Ford of my dreams…

 

I’m calling the soul of the Spaniard–Apalachee

– Profound –

sweating in metallurgies

whose kids play of Barbies and Kens

 

I’m calling

the generation that hides vibrators from their kids

and represses MASTURBATIOOON

 

I’m calling the stupor of Napalm

Heir of the ancient Coca – and I’m calling “COLA”, its cousin

 

I’m calling you

You are needed on the front

“where the Gospel has not yet reached”

 

Come on, my friend

Beat mit me

 

For: http://dversepoets.com/2013/10/17/meeting-the-bar-the-beat-poets-and-their-poetry/