Hear the moktak on the rua,
bateria dos brasileiros.
The first bee
appears after
milk is poured into soil.
Haze as
when gazing west,
we,
moving east
see the least among us,
a tiny snail
or gnat.
Clearly,
air
that rises,
cleans.
Seems
the moktak
hits out 108
or
2/4 rhythym
one hundred twenty
wood stick
beats
to a minute.
In an hour,
after the dogs
remain silent
and the
birds
spire
over the street
we with doubting hearts
and unused malas
with rusty marias
sing in
"Marks called "finger-flutings" — where a finger has been dragged through a soft cave floor or wall to create lines — have also be found. At Rouffignac (France), such marks were made by children aged between 2 and 5 years of age, with the aid of adults who hoisted them aloft to create their marks in otherwise unreachable places." Source
Maestra Brico, I think of you often these days. I remember how you spoke to us, gave us courage laced with laughter, believed in our intelligence. Art school was not easy as a woman, and a working class woman at that.
Thank you.
Antonia_Brico
I cannot go home. There isn't money, inclination, time.
Another has filled the rooms with their writing and dogs.
Keep walking.
I like living on a street named for a captain that led a populist coup
that turned into a revolution.
He chose 2 children over office, died young.
I will die old - it's too late for anything else.
Grief and loss are on both sides of the ocean.
Happiness too, if you count the walking,
talking to animals, admiring old trees.
These are moments of brightness,
inside places
reached through grief and joy.
I employ my heart in the hard work
of listening.
My mind remains restless.
Home isn't in the heart or mind.
I could look for it.
I've sturdy shoes, health, new glasses.
I'm schooled in what passes as home but isn't.
I've had to keep moving, state to state, country to country,
I chose two cats for the journey, and a husband.
They died and I lived.
Keep walking.
This grey wall
exists
above
a brown village.
Sky clear
up here,
where
there is
a pink pelargonium
glaring at
a green lizard.
Is it a kestral
or a falcon
from the family of
the hawk?
What a bird
is
can't clearly
describe
seeing it fly
its
wings
great horizontals,
feathered capstones
a mão é uma concha
dentro dele
batidas
o pulso das ruas
_________________
the hand is a shell
inside it
beats
the pulse of the streets
the stork
here I am
this I am
this
the mixture of
the lament of
joy and sadness
_____________
a cegonha
aqui estou
esta eu sou
isto
a mistura da
o lamento de
alegria e triste
Paiseje,
Vermeer, Wordsworth
japonês,
Suijin (水神, the water god)
Goya
gaijin
that's me
between the sumi-tsubo 墨壷,
kusu くす, and gyo ぎょ
between
極楽 (Gokuraku)ごくらく
and
じごく (Jigoku)
in hot
水, みず
It's me.
See?
A menina à janela, o lobo à porta
ou
o peixe pescado a chorar
mais vida
mais vida
at the margins of a landscape
by Vermeer
appear William and Dorothy
reading Sujiin, here
next to Goya
the foreigner
that's me
see the plumbline, ink smell,
tell the doctor, the medicine
is a poem, the song is a fish
the fish caught in tears
wishing for
more life
more life
From Old Japanese. Cognate with the kusu root of adjective 奇し (kusushi, “mystical”)[1], from the way that drugs and medicines would have mystical effects.
dog's heart
dog's dear dearth
loving nothing
cold hearth
ice water
magellan
magellan straits
Wash
cook
clean
means
the body
moving
through space
the mind
kind of
settled
into each movement
moment
my
mistakes
are aspects
of independence
as I
access spaces
commit to decisions
and revisions
and revisions
hoping
learning
eliminating
obstacles
I listen to
a warbler
somewhere nesting
sing,
her song
of spring
hope and
obligation.
Nearby,
I spy
Miragaia,
its fountains
freshly painted,
its stone portals
restored.
Here,
near Miragaia and
a girl's school,
a Magdalen house.
An old woman
sweeping there
glares at us.
The house itself
is very quiet.
Perhaps, cautions one
of us, it is still used.
The sorrow of the place
then breaks
as the warbler is heard.
Such a joyous bird!
She is up there,
somewhere,
high above the house
in the Magdalen's
tangled tree.
The neighboring girls,
listening,
look up from their books,
exchange looks
of defiance,
amid peals of laughter.