quinta-feira, 31 de outubro de 2013

IN THE HIPPIE DAYS


In the hippie days


(how did I wish to be one of them)

beautiful slim females traveled ‘round me
wrapped in nothing more than flowing manes,
long legs and bedroom eyes.

around me the world traveled light,

while I
measured the weight of philosophies,
revealed deep insights in political sciences
heurekas inside smoky dark rooms.


In the days of today

(how do I wish to be one of them)

healthy females run by me full with their senses of self,
determined in purpose, harmonious in garb, 
intentionally accomplished, slick in tongue.

while I

go through yet another phase
of dismal proportions.
 

Erica Weick
August 7, 01, revisited October 31, 2013 para Halloween




terça-feira, 29 de outubro de 2013

THE GATHERING



 
I miss all of my women, all of them

my lovers, my friends,
my mother,
my women,

all of them,

I miss them.
 

My people of kin,
my feel of skin,
my missteps,
 
the woman in me.
 
 
What else do I need from you?
 
What else do you need from me?

But my women,
all of them,
inside of me,
 
all of them!

 

domingo, 27 de outubro de 2013

SHADOWS






Fallen in love with a ghost

fallen in love with a ghost
eighty and six foot tall
she tiptoed through the tulips
hurt not a leaf

between
life snags the talk and quarrel
nooks and crannies cravings
and deep lust

between
the want unwant
shaft and seed
stone green of evermoss
and life lines

love had to fit between those paces
she knew
of shadows
the garden gates
where he walked

she walked light as feather
stooped and touched the berries

taste of spring

 




Note beneath the lines:
___________________________________________________________________________
 
This moment my desire packed her suitcases
and left me bereft alone
like in Cristina Branco in her fado lyrics. 

This moment this woman of eighty tiptoes through
her flowers so as not to step over her love. 

And so she gardens the tulips deep down in the ground,
deeper underground the better cause there way down
is where she finds her source of spirit. 

She the woman who stoops
tiptoes across tomatoes beans asparagus.

My imaginary woman of vegetables, 
my female model of the provider.

 

THE GREEN WHITE LINE


 
The Green White Line

It is strange to know how the search for (or the certainty of) this steady green brilliant line to the heart continues to keep some of us from going away on sojourn for good; continues to keep some of our hearts from breaking.

We’ve had unusual snow cover now for a couple of weeks. Our green line has turned to white lace and ice for now.  And again today we’ve had a rare raw cold and beautiful snow and wind day.

The geese are very quiet, holding together against the Northeaster that blows cold ice snow white across the copper gold tall grasses, toward the West against the Sun.  It is this stillness, this clear white boundary to copper grass movement – it is this wispy swaying gray of clouds of snow.

Old cars, junk, stored boats in their tight blue Winter wraps between me and the beauty, so I imagine.

And we make our boots into huge flat snow shoes so as to give our Wild Willie, the slow cat a chance to walk with us.  The six of us, me, you, Posho, Beans, Big Foot and slow Willie falling and trampling across the fields, enchanted by all this sculptured crackly white lace.  The green white line holds our hearts together for a while.

But soon the muddy footprints of deer, rabbit, dog, cat, bird and people alike start to set all nice feelings about snow and ice into a dirty semi-urban slushy nightmare, an ocean of mud without the benefit of concrete pavement.

There, in a nutshell, we are back to daylight, we are back to the Shore, we are back to this South.

 

Ew 2/3/2000 revisited 10/27/2013

Beneath the line

Remembering dead You, Posho, Beans, Big Foot and Wild Willie

 

 

sábado, 26 de outubro de 2013

GENIE


 
Genie
 
A pixie freckled genie
in joy of play
 
in fluid dance she moves her hands
to emphasize the soft edges

of her many points.

She shakes her head,

a gaze of brown huge eyes,
a sprinkle of a smile.

 
No roots on earth this creature,
no bird but antelope of breath

made out of air.
 
A body tall as willow,
strong haunches, legs and hips to sprint,
in leaps, taut muscle,

a graceful arch,

she rises into the giddy air

She flies

 
and when she lands,
she tells me everything…
 

 
Erica Weick
Photo "Frida" by Romero de Andrade Lima

ON THE VERGE


On the verge of some happiness
 
 

she stood perfectly still

as she watched you
as a pure color become a hue
as a pure color become
a lighter version of the blues
a tint of something
a darker shade
made out of black and white
a hue no less, but so indefinite
it qualified as definition.

On the verge of some happiness
she could not quite decide
the value of your color
the brightness
tone of your connotation
soul full moment of that second

and she stood perfectly still
on the verge of happiness
at the edge of color
and of hue



 

sexta-feira, 25 de outubro de 2013

OS DIARIOS DE EVA/ EVE'S DIARIES


 
Eve and the Beasts in Paradise
Mark Twain in Eve's Diaries, illustrations by Lester Ralph, free, downloadable and printable book, part of the Project Gutenberg.

Eve muses: "I couldn't get back home; it was too far and turning cold; but I found some tigers and nestled in among them and was most adorably comfortable, and their breath was sweet and pleasant, because they live on strawberries. I had never seen a tiger before, but I knew them in a minute by the stripes. If I could have one of those skins, it would make a lovely gown."



 

Eva e os animais selvagens no paraíso

Mark Twain em Eve’s Diaries, ilustrado por LesterRalph, livro grátis, para download e pode ser impresso, parte do Projeto Gutenberg.

Eva pondera: “Não posso voltar para casa; é muito longe e está esfriando; mas encontrei alguns tigres e me aninhei dentre eles e estava adoravelmente aconchegante, o hálito deles doce e agradável pois vivem de morangos. Nunca tinha visto um tigre antes mas os reconheci pelas listras. Se eu pudesse ter uma dessas peles poderia fazer uma capa linda.”  

 

quinta-feira, 24 de outubro de 2013

CAPITALISMO DESVAIRADO



No meu jardim
capitalismo desvairado
e um louva deus papa tudo

 



The praying mantis is well known as a generalist and voracious predator.
In my garden
mad capitalism
and a predatory praying mantis




O louva-deus é conhecido como um predador generalista e voraz.





quarta-feira, 23 de outubro de 2013

MINA DE SAL



E me pergunto, com liberdade poética:


Mas quem então mesmo
quer deixar de lado essas férias de pousada,
o nado de água limpa
da praia pristina do turismo ecológico,

as feras nobres das savanas,
a caça ao leão,
esse luxo da gelada?
a casa própria, de campo,

a curica do serviço, celular,
o corpo bem tratado,
ouro do badulaque, do linho
do algodãozinho orgânico

quarto de lua com a vista da Virginia
do Fernando de Noronha?
a fotografia, os livros?
o teto? a cama, o fogão?

Isso precisa de aço,
de óleo,
da eletricidade do plástico,
do teste da micro fibra de titânium,
do núbio,
do óxido verde do cobre,
da leveza do aluminium
do debaixo da terra
do suor da mina de sal

Alguém tem que assumir o custo dessa coisa...
Alguém tem que governar.


e.weick 10/13

terça-feira, 22 de outubro de 2013

MADNESS IS NO LONGER VERY POPULAR


 

Madness is no longer very popular

The story I have to tell you is about madness.

Not the madness of the kind that has a proper name.  Not just nervous only like my mother used to tell us:  "Be gentle, he is nervous today…"

I took many hints from my mother regarding madness and know now how to tell when madness is truly herself and at home -- "Stay away from him, he's touchy. He had too much to drink today."  That could be madness but is not necessarily so. 

Not even the madness I call manic, like in manic states when I build too many buildings, write too many poems.  Sink into depressive states of being because there are no more perspectives of drawing, no more buildings for me to build, no more people to understand, no more poems to write. No more voice.

When you know you cannot change it, yet you must. 

Or as the two-season version of light madness, politely referred to as the bi-polar kind.

When you rant and rave then talk not at all, hardly wake up in the morning.

Perfectly excused, these lesser madnesses.  They are crazy but they are not mad, these people with their massive syndromes.  As a matter of fact, these lighter versions are thought to be very much in fashion  -- a therapist, pill, encounter group, social worker, a bit of treatment, a garden, a bit of herb, society is kind to those types, easily under control.  Society forgives and forgets them.

No. The story I have to tell you is about madness of a different kind.  Not a kind madness.

It seems to me I need to find the way to impart to you something you do not wish to hear. I do not wish to say. 

The madness I am obsessed with is the kind that has to do with jumping out of windows.  Someone if after you.  Someone is stealing your genius concepts, designs for the flying boat right from under your head.  Exquisite drawings of the chair that will revolutionize furniture, ultimate fine architectural renderings of the cities of the future, your novel of doom and revelation.

Right there they are, coming after you.  They catch you and throw you into a room where you rock back and forth, catatonic in your state.  You stay until again they need you to invent and to imagine your genius concepts.

The madness I want to discuss with you then has to do with the distance you set between yourself and her. You come into the room.  Your first act is to turn off the four radios tuned on to four different stations of word, three televisions tuned on to additional four channels of vision.  Many languages spoken here. Full blast.  On the stove the pungent smells of one ton of mint candy cooking.  On the driveway the remnants of the only viable family car turned into a sculpture of cement. In the living room massive wooden carvings.

One by one, you turn them off, these madnesses, you must!  Assertive personality.

Turn off a mind you know keeps track of it all.  You come in and turn off the radio stations, the channels, click off the fires. 

This madness does not and you know it.

In your mind, it seems sometimes in mine, this madness masquerades as just a whim, a problem deeply set in behavior and attitude.  Sometimes it seems this madness needs placebo control, drastic change of circumstance, a revelation, a series of shock treatments.

Remain pro-active, properly manage and control this madness.  You might even be right!

But what I miss are the times when mad people were thought to be wise.  When they too were thought to have crossed a threshold. The ivy stolen from their doors steps a healing to mine.

What I miss are the times when people were like Jean Cocteau creating plays and literature way ahead of their time.

What I miss are the times when Anais Ninn talked to Henry Miller and understood the essence of the small nature of his male conquering being.

When the piano of Keith Jarrett took me beyond what had already been named. 

What I miss most of all are the times when I too have a glimpse of that gate, of the hell inside. 

Not of heaven. Oh, heaven!  Nauseatingly we all have been told about heaven.

What I miss is the protection of the blue hand painted on that threshold to keep me safe inside, yes, but also to keep me safe outside when I venture beyond, to take a peek at hell.

Not like now though, the revulsion, the veiled accusations, the implication that if only I could manage it properly I could see the light.

There is no light in madness. There is only a threshold.

And a fear for now, for the schizophrenic fifty three years old brother of mine, thirty years into his madness, loved and not touched by synthetic science,

my almost twin, this mad man.

 

Erica Weick
In memory of my brother Dirceu.

segunda-feira, 21 de outubro de 2013

IMAGINARY


 
Imaginary

I made you into meanings
you did not have
and in the making of these meanings
I got to know you so well!

Where then did I get this exquisite 9th sense of you?
Where did I get my clues?
The clinging evidence is never clear.

When did you slip in
un-announced
in the messages from beneath the dreams
between the lines
inside the hollows of very old trees?




Imaginário


No imaginar te inventei
de um no fazer fiz outro
e do tanto que teci
te soube tão bem

De onde o veio do nono '
sentido de ti?
De onde a fresta?
O pegajoso das seivas não me conta

Quando mesmo a chegada
de mansinho
assim tão calado
devagarinho

revelado dentre as linhas
dos recados enrustidos de sonhos
escondidos  
nas cavernas de arvores tão antigas?