sábado, 13 de dezembro de 2014


Dilemas do norte e do sul
Milkweed in winter, Maryland, USA

Seeds by the wind

Milkweed (Asclepias sp.) – the only plant where monarch butterflies lay their eggs, and so, essential for the Monarch’s survival. Seeds are wind-pollinated, pods are silky smooth inside, rough and edgy on the outside. Destruction of habitat where the plant grows, threatens the butterfly in North America.
Monarch in Brasil

Monarch in hometown

The only monarch of the South American summer
In Brasil, algodaozinho do campo (asclepias currasavica) is used as a medicinal plant. This fact, combined with habitat destruction, also threatens the survival of the Monarch butterfly there.




sábado, 22 de novembro de 2014


I stay in the Eastern Shore because the geese migrate here.


Year after year, their flying shadows settle my doubts of earlier
wet days of spring, the heat of summer.

As I approach and suffer the assault of high frequency screeches,
my tolerance nearly quits on me.

Excited and riled up by my presence,
they are like potent neon lights focused on my hearing.
Their incessant talk remind me of village markets in foreign places,
constant din of conversations, calling out for goods,
haggling for better prices.

They dance toward each other, retreat, advance
"Hello, how are you, I lost track of you up in Maine. Glad to see you.
There is a PREDATOR there. WATCH OUT!"

My arrival at the shore with the dogs creates
an immediate flurry of movement.
A large v-shape of water in front of us clears. 
Noisily explaining our presence,
they split into formal dance troupes.

Ripples shimmer the surface

as I stand there quietly,
the dogs enthralled, and a bit afraid. 

The geese begin to regain their distance
and soon, in synchrony,
the gap is bridged.  

For hours, we watch their dance,
these armies dressed in brown
and white and black.

Not war like, not at all. 
More like assembly lines inside textile factories. 
The acrid odor of sizing sprayed on to every bolt
straight on to my teary eyes. 

Assembly lines of look alike,
brown and white and black
yarn floating back and forth, in motion on to belts.

Assembled colors in the weaving of the looms,
unending touch of texture in textiles.

Why humans cannot like their steady beauty?
Like deer, geese are a metaphor, a figure of speech
I do not particularly care to be accurate about,
or bother check in the dictionaries and annals of figures of speech. 

It is simply that geese, migratory or not,
just like deer,
remind me seriously that we are not getting it together
as maybe we should. 

As it stands, we are screwing up this place all to hell.

The geese talk, they exchange views.
All they are doing is meet again. 
Get back in touch after a journey four times more difficult,
than any journey either you or I have ever taken,
in a year. 

Longer than you and I imagine to travel,
this dimension of life. 

The geese have traveled.
They have stories to tell. 
They include us in their conversations,
as you and I come near.
They talk to us. 

You and I are passerbys,
the accidental tourists. 

They, the geese
are the people.

quinta-feira, 23 de outubro de 2014


As mil e uma estórias das sementes da romã e da viagem de Perséfone para dentro dos territórios da Morte (e do inferno de Hades), da Mãe territorial, do Pai no Julgamento e das Leis.

E da menina que puxa, já fazia tempo só o que queria era correr pelo terreiro, achar a romã madura, com as unhas abrir a casca devagar, pedacinho só pra tirar um gomo, mais fininho e delicado que mexerica ou laranja, veludo do vinho do Tio, transparente de ácrido lúcido. E de chupar não sete nem mil sementes mas cada gomo inteiro. Devagar. Sem contar. Escorrendo o suco gostoso pelos lados da boca. Cuspindo o bagaço amargo e os carocinhos no chão do quintal para as galinhas. Morrer nisso. Era tudo que a menina queria.

Talvez a menina soubesse mais que Zeus, mais que Demetria, mais que Hades, mais que Wall Street, mais que todos e mais que ninguém. Talvez. De incipiente mulher, na mudez que veio depois.

Talvez a menina soubesse de coisas que já tinham sido explicadas… na criação. E ficou sem voz.

The thousand and one stories of pomegranate seeds, Persephone’s journey into Death Territories (Hades’ Hell), of the territorial Mother, of Father in Judgment and of the Law.

And of the girl who, well, all she wanted was to run through the backyard and pick a ripe pomegranate, rip the skin slowly with her fingernails, just enough to carefully take a segment, more delicate than an orange, finer than a tangerine, each seed inside, velvet red as Uncle’s wine, transparent acrid and lucid.  And to suck, not seven, not a thousand but each entire. Slowly. Without counting. Good juice dripping down the sides of her mouth. Spitting the bitter fiber and the hard seeds in the yard for the chickens. To die, doing this. It was all the girl wanted.

The girl apparently wanted things that had already been explained… in creation. And she lost her voice.

Maybe the girl knew more than Zeus, more than Demeter, more than Hades, more than Wall Street, more than all and no one. Maybe.  Incipient woman, in the dumbness that came later.


quarta-feira, 24 de setembro de 2014

quinta-feira, 10 de julho de 2014


O meu lugar feliz - mercado municipal de Belo Horizonte
– uma vez feirante, sempre feirante! 

My happy place in hometown – the city market –
once a farmer’s market vendor, always a market vendor!

terça-feira, 1 de julho de 2014




All she wanted was a clear explanation for their lack of sidewalks and their sidekicks, the street curbs.

Important intersecting segments where people meet, walk and promenade, the sidewalks.  And the curbs, where they sit and talk, all bullshit and bragging is exchanged, all serious story told.


"Why these people live without sidewalks?" the crucial question.  


Excerpts from The stories for childwoman, a play by Erica Weick



Naquele tempo tudo que ela queria era uma explicação clara pela ausência das calçadas e de seus companheiros, os meio fios.

Segmentos importantes de interseção onde as pessoas caminham. E os meio fios onde as pessoas se agacham, sentam e batem papo, onde os exageros, as besteiras e todas estórias sérias se encontram.



“Porque essa gente vive sem calçadas?” 
Texto de "Stories for Childwoman, a play", 2010, Erica Weick, USA

quarta-feira, 25 de junho de 2014



The Papago, native North Americans, tell us in a legend,
that once upon a time, the Creator felt sorry for the children when he realized that their destiny was to grow old, fat, blind and to die.
So he collected the fountains for the most beautiful colors of the universe, the flowers, the leaves, the sun, the skies,  mixed and bundled them up in a package, as a gift for the children.

When they opened it up, the butterflies, colorful and enchanting flew out in song, much to the delight of the children. 
And fright by the song birds, who jealous, protested and petionned the Creator.

Here we have it, we got what we got.


Os Papagos, índios norte americanos, explicam que a tempos atrás, o Criador teve pena das crianças, quando se deu conta de que o destino delas era mesmo o de envelhecer, engordar, ficarem mancas, cegas e morrer.
Daí que êle pegou as fontes de tôdas as côres mais belas, das flôres, do sol, das folhas, do céu.
Misturou tôdas dentro de um pacote e as deu de presente as crianças.
Quando elas abriram o pacote, dali voaram as borboletas, coloridas e encantadoras.
Note-se bem que naquele tempo as borboletas também cantavam, para delícia das crianças e grande espanto dos passarinhos.
Êstes finalmente se reuniram em comício e reclamaram junto ao Creador.
E deu no que deu…