Swallow meal, swift food

swift meal,  swallow food

_________________________

A nor'easter

throws weevils, stunned miners

into the sky.

Ai!

To be

plucked and eaten -

food for the swallows,
a meal for swifts 

_________________________________

Uma nortada

atira gorgulhos, mineiros atordoados

para o céu.

Ai!

Para serem

arrancados e comidos -

alimento para as andorinhas,
uma refeição para os andorinhões. 

A sort of mind

that sees

ordinary

stones

as our

bodies

________

Um tipo de mente

que vê

comuns

pedras

como os nossos

corpos

I found photos of mummy bees.

Walking,

I gaze at

cypresses.

Sometimes, when I pass these trees, 

I am tempted to reach into the skies as they do.

I grow older, shift my thoughts.

Krishnamurti rejoiced in his blank mind,

easily learned languages.

I follow a lizard tail peeking from under my terrace rail.

Cauda-de-andorinha (Papilio machaon),

Large and yellow

appears in the high blue sky 

near the white crescent moon.

The studio is a room of ships,

of moments afloat.

My mind is a harbor,

full of departures and arrivals.

you keep working

at looking

you keep working

at seeing

Night now

is morning.

 

I hear clearly

the fledging gulls

nesting restless on the roof.

 

Small feet run inside walls.

Trapped flies 

plead with windows.

Dog barks

soak into the

wind.

 

Geraniums

lose soil and petals from their pots.

Lost seeds and leaves are blown 

under my ill-fitting kitchen door.

 

art thoughts

A painter I respect said she liked art history. 

I saw her sketches, 

vitrined,

her influential streams, 

palimpsests of western dreams.

No pony masks there, or Dave jugs,

not one stone guide

or smudged bark mark.

Her art history went where there were streets 

so well described

and clouded with thought

I couldn't clearly see them anymore.

 

___________________________________________

When you return, listen to the redbird for me.

 

_______________________________________

 

Lakshmi   

Ashtalakshmi Stotram.

Dhurga 

Kavithuvam

are dancing 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Cr4RO3BLsUM lakshmi

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5stzp_k_4tY  dhurga

tropical storm

trees downed

but

not 

drowning

flex

flood

flout

outside

After sleeping deeply,

I see better.

I place an empty glass jar, two makeshift cups of plastic, all waiting for slips.

On another sill,  cuttings sprout white roots.

So quickly, life awakens and slumbers.

Outside my wonder, fog.

 

 

Night thought

Tilt to Saturn.

Altair above.

 A creative girl

closely watched

as rare feathered thought

that ought not be

C'mon

says the stare,

slip a little in the air.

You do as

young birds falter.

 

Oh, and the woman

this girl grows into-

careful!

She's learned

what she's earned 

from lips, and misses.

She's the 

solitary

wing seen

when light changes

friend to a kind

that remind 

themselves

joyfully

what

and

who

they are.

 

 https://www.portaldaliteratura.com/poemas.php?id=1621

Ana Luisa Amaral - Entre As Duas E As Três

ENTRE AS DUAS E AS TRÊS
Queria falar do que não tem concerto:
as letras desenhadas e compostas
com que confundo o espaço do papel,
a angústia compassada no contar
e a súbita alegria de ser eu
penosamente, às duas da manhã
Queria escrever do que não tem lugar:
a branca, doce e sonolenta estrada
onde espaçadas as palavras crescem,
suavizadas pelo lento sono
que devagar percorre as coisas todas
penosamente, às duas da manhã
Queria dizer do que não tem conserto:
ou seja, eu; ou seja, o papel branco
sombrio agora por já ser demais,
as letras excedentes e sonoras
desmembrando o silêncio e a noite toda
penosamente, às duas da manhã
Só então falarei do que ficou:
compassada alegria desenhada
na angústia de dizer sem me contar,
o papel confundido de impotente
e todavia prontas as palavras.
Quase às três da manhã. Penosamente.

_____________________________________

I want to talk about that which has no concert

the letters, drawn and composed

with which I confuse the space of the paper,

the compassionate anguish in the story

and the subtle joy that I am (of being me)

painfully, at two in the morning

I want to write about that which has no place

the white, sweet and sleepy (somnolent) road

where the spaces of words grow

softened by slow sleep

that slowly goes through all things

painfully, at two in the manha

I want to about that which has no concert (design or plan)

 

I wanted to say what can't be fixed:
that is, me; that is, the white paper
dark now because it's already too much,
the surplus and sonorous letters
dismembering the silence and the whole night
painfully, at two in the morning
Only then will I speak of what remains:
compassed joy drawn
in the anguish of telling without telling,
the paper confused with impotence
and yet the words are ready.
Almost three in the morning. Penosamente.

Uma

solteira

sozinha

solo

uma e apenas uma

de terra

de ti

 

light

line horizon

night

arc oblate

 

 

Feast of the Assumption

four in the morning

white geraniums under

seven oranges nesting 

among

distant blinking stars

 

a ameixa portuguesa - por WCW

comer ameixas vermelhas -

atordoado

agradecido

__________________________

eating red plums -

stunned

grateful

leaving medusa to the tides

beached, dark crescent

pheasant feather moon

disappears soon

 

found  flint

stung by

salt

Grey day opens

white light

after short sleeps night

money in one box or another

an argument unsettled

but

published! 

pushed forward

 Demasiado devaneio!

Eu estou sempre um pouco distraido

 

Archangel bears

 

 

Alançar memórias

Trazer histórias

É mudar

Transmutar
a si próprio

Naquela pessoa
Que tu és
Em novos lugares

________________

Reaching for memories
Bringing stories
Is to change
To transmute
oneself
Into that person
That you are
In new places

Clean stones 

one by one 

Notice

things

Sea, animal

or

one

small

flint

pale orb weaver Araneus Diadematus common european garden spider

an hour later it rains

 

 

walking on bones

a sauropod 

in a dovecote

 

 

 

sea fog
and ground fog
from the bottom of the mountain valleys

river clouds steaming
in the morning

a small pond
now dry
that no one praised

 

____________________________

 

nevoeiro do mar
e nevoeiro terrestre
do fundo dos vales das montanhas

nuvens de rio a fumegar
pela manhã

uma pequena lagoa
agora seco
que ninguém elogiou

What cries come from you

 hollowing death and defying silence?

Hart's pennyroyal

 grey

green

mentha cervina 

perhaps rooting

on a sill

 

rosemary of the river

extinct in nature

without shadows

without weakness 

________________

 

 

 cinzento

verde

uma pomba vista
mentha cervina
talvez a enraizar-se
no parapeito de uma janela

alecrim do rio
extinto na natureza

uma pequena planta
sem elogios
sem fraqueza