Ar Líquido 3: janeiro 2018

31 janeiro, 2018

Mark Strand

MANTER AS COISAS INTEIRAS

Num campo
eu sou a ausência
de campo.
Acontece
sempre o mesmo.
Onde quer que esteja
sou aquilo que falta.

Ao caminhar
separo o ar
e de todas as vezes
o ar precipita-se
para preencher os espaços
onde o meu corpo esteve.

Todos temos motivos
para nos deslocarmos.
Eu desloco-me
para manter as coisas inteiras.

Mark Strand, em Lacre, Traduções e Versões de Poesia de Vasco Gato (ed. Língua Morta)

30 janeiro, 2018

Isadora e Cristina

neste dia há-de descobrir
que dentro do teu tórax
habita uma granada fossilizada
com meu nome gravado

Rita Isadora Pessoa

Cristina Tavares, B&W, 2017

Andrea Geyer

Andrea Geyer,
Constellations (Carrie Stettheimer after Genthe), 2018

29 janeiro, 2018

Ursula K. Le Guin

There’s something
the size of a split pea
that I haven’t written.
that I haven’t written right.
I can’t sleep.

She gets up
and writes it.
Her work
is never done.

Ursula K. Le Guin,The Writer on, and at, Her Work

28 janeiro, 2018

Dorothea Lange

Dorothea Lange, Father and Son at a Hurling March, Ireland, 1954

26 janeiro, 2018

Grécia, 350 ac.

25 janeiro, 2018

Paul Gauguin

Paul Gauguin, Te Faaturuma, 1891

24 janeiro, 2018

Clothing soul

This thing I am making is my clothing soul.

Ursula K. Le Guin, 1991

Ursula K. Le Guin - A pele

THE SKIN

"All around us is the skin,
helping keep our bodies in.”

I’ve known that poem sixty years.
There’s more to it than first appears.

If we were skinless, like a cloud,
would we not mingle with the crowd?

Would not our little bodies be
more boundless even than the sea,

and gaseous as the atmosphere?
Would we be there as well as here?

Would I be you, and you be me,
and both of us mere entropy?

The two it takes to tango need
to be discrete, not just discreet.

The skin, however, does have holes
for letting in and out our souls,

our food, and such necessities.
It is designed to serve and please.

It washes well, but with the years
gets wrinkles, little spots and smears,

and somehow doesn’t seem to fit
as seamlessly as once as it did.

But still it is my nomad’s tent,
my shelter, my integument,

the outside of myself, this thin,
seemingly superficial skin,

that hems me neatly all about,
keeping foreign bodies out,
and keeping me, a while yet, in.

Ursula K. Le Guin