ERASED TATIANA

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TORN

           ado*

 

 

                      de colhão para colhão:

                        - não escapas!

                             - Sena

 

a rose

love

freedom

 

 - Glyniadakis

 

 

 

Sem

os doidos

da

compaixão

o mundo

seria

a

peste:

a morte lenta que se agarra a tudo.

É a velha

bola entre prozac e xanax.

 

O menino de bibe

liga para a mãe para apurar o grau de

bacalhau

são -

o único garante vital.

 

O país do puro pássaro é

o meu fantasma:

 viver

junto do mar

nem para

goya  -

esperança cara!

 

No inferno periférico

os

meus  filhos

nascerão ingleses

- cidadãos do mundo -

e  eu zangada

mato

a

menina

educada

a arte de habitar

a solidão de uma cozinha.

 

Abençoada

taxista da nação

poeta

neste país

de vegetação

cortada

calcula a distância certa

que nos pode salvar

o coração

enorme de

ternura sem dentes

 - falo gigante

que cresce cresce.

 

o poeta

sabe que é preciso fechar o olhos

para

poder continuar a amar.

*Apagamento, apropriação e reescrita do poema “O Retorno, 2016”, de Tatiana Faia, do seu livro: “Um quarto em Atenas” (2018). / "“TORNado” - Vítor Teves, Idealização: Setembro/Outubro; Realização: novembro de 2019.

 Nota: O apagamento, e tudo o que lhe seguiu, teve a autorização da autora do poema - Tatiana Faia.

The Torso - poema de Robert Duncan

THE TORSO

 

Most beautiful!      the red-flowering eucalyptus,

           The madrone, the yew

 

        Is he …

 

So thou wouldst smile, and take me in thine arms

The sight of London to my exiled eyes

Is a Elysium to a new-come soul

 

                         If he be truth

                         I Would dwell in the illusion of him

 

His hands unlocking from chambers of my male body

 

                 such an idea in man’s image

 

          rising tides that sweep me towards him

 

                         …homosexual?

 

                                    anda t the treasure of his mouth

 

                         pour forth my soul

 

                                     his soul              commingling

 

I thought a Being more than vast, His body leading

                  into Paradise,      his eyes

                                quickening a fire in me,         a trembling

 

               hieroglyph:          At the root of the neck

 

         the clavicle, for the neck is the stem of the great artery

             upward into his head that is beautiful

 

                                    At the rise of the pectoral muscles

 

the nipples, for the breasts are like sleeping fountains

       of feeling in man, waiting above the beat of his heart,

       shielding the rise and fall of his breath, to be

       awakend

 

                                    At the axis of his mid hriff

 

the navel, for in the pit of his stomach the chord from

     which first he was fed has its temple,

 

                                 At the root of the groin

 

the public hair, for the torso is the stem in which the man

      flowers forth and leads to the stamen of flesh in which

      his seed rises

 

a wave of need and desire over         taking me

 

                              cried out my name

 

              (This was long ago.      It was another life)

 

                                                and said,

                           What do you want of me?

 

 

I do not know, I said.        I have fallen in love.        He

        has brough me into heights and dephts my heart

                        would fear         without him.       His look

 

            pierces my side     .       fire eyes     .

   

          I have been waiting for you, he said:

                                        I know what you desire

 

                       you do not yet know        but through me     .

 

         And I am with you everywhere.         In your falling

 

         I have fallen from a high place.            I have raised myself

  

                          from darkness in your           rising

 

                                                     wherever you are

 

                my hand in your hand         seeking        the locks, the keys

 

I am there.            Gathering me, you gather

 

                    your Self.

 

       From my Other is not a woman but a man

 

      the King upon whose bosom let me lie.         

 

                                                                                                                          Poema de Robert Duncan        1968

Nota: “Torso”, pintura-colagem do poema de Robert Duncan - ”The Torso”, é um livro de artista. É dedicado ao poeta Ricardo Marques.