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Mostrando postagens com marcador mistery. Mostrar todas as postagens

segunda-feira, 13 de dezembro de 2010

Rituals

Rituals
“Fortified by its knowledge of the Book of the Dead, then, the Wake here answers the haunting eschatological question of how the decaying corpse, buried in loamy inertia and scattering throughout the material universe, initiates the process by which it resurrects itself bodily into life: it opens its mouth in the hour when the sun moves through the gates of dawn, and it lets language, consciousness, and sunlight flood back in to replace darkness.”
Quotes from “Joyce’s book of the dark: Finnegan’s wake”, by John Bishop
Forever do we try to gather then at dawn
force open the lid to the loamy inertia
so as to return to scattered play primordial dance
no mating in view, lusco fusco twilight chiaro scuro
sunlight so bright
the words of language curse our morning breath so foul


Unable to retreat the light a beacon we flock to Sunday Sermon
we build inside these walls we dress
we mate the tonic of our loss
we lose our visions we chat in language forget the magic
unable to sustain in holding hands we marry
the rituals of these words.


Bookkeeping

"Presuming to speak directly from the point of view of the corpse, the Book of the Dead may be one of the few books on earth ideally written for an audience consisting entirely of the dead.”
 
If you write of things from the night
of the dark perspectives,
yet continue to expect living creatures
to give you understanding…

Well then apply the great concept,
call yourself the reluctant writer from the depths,
start to keep two sets of books,
two sets of diaries, two sets of memories,
two sets of loves:
one for the accounting of the living
one for the accounting of the dead.


Erica Weick
At the turn of the millennium…


quinta-feira, 9 de dezembro de 2010

Inhabit the body


“In-habit the body”:


when I grow old
i will enter my body

crawl the corridors
inside my skin
frolic in vein

loom in textiles
review the prices, the fairness,
invest in coins

invent
the market place
in simmer the harvest

sample the meat
conquer the yeast
inhabit my indonesia

brocade, velvet burgundy
sacred cows
golden buffaloes

lantejouled Indian theatre
untamed tree of life
hometown of my dreams

in ferris wheel giggle
the pleasure of the ride.


September 30, 2010
Erica Weick in a dream

sábado, 6 de março de 2010

Travels through the frontiers

She Meets the Bag Lady
(sans frontieres par excellence)
The bag lady again, inhabitant of no city, dweller of dream

The one dressed in the best of wool,
the shiniest of thrifty shop of Gucci shoes,
you could not tell but for a slight frayed edge,
moth bitten hole this side of sleeve,
in her thrilling dazzling mocca green castor scarf and skirt,
between you and I and her and Liz,

she the best in dress,
albeit the shine of shoe be made of spit,
this lady of color and of coordination,
with many wrinkles to her smile and to her face,
many wrinkles to her thighs and to her belly,
this hallucinatory woman of many wrinkles

sets her mind to go to Paris,
sets her will to go on and find Alice,
that same Alice,
who with much malice interfered in her love,
way back way when.

So this my lady of fifty, of sixty, of seventy,

lined incised
slight trembling fingers
sets a light to this one last rag,
soaked in virgin olive, pure will not do,
sets a light in the tin garbage can
on fire and warms her hands.

this bag lady of eighty,

and on she goes to catch a bus,
on her way to find a way to go to Paris,
to see the tower, to sip the wine, to touch the statue,
to fall in love and to find the malice.

Last I saw her, the bag lady,
she was singing songs inside a barge,
inside a bus,
impeccable as always,

this bag lady

that likes to be fed on grapes.

________________________
beneath the lines
written here in Belo Horizonte, during a visit, a few years ago.  The bag lady was an elderly American woman, a creature of dream, travelling the world with a smile and a bunch of sturdy shopping bags. I met her at the bus station and we chatted briefly.
My poem appears in Dead Sleeping Shamans, by Elizabeth Kane Buzzelli, May 2010.