POEM Sylvia Plath | READING Ygor Raduy

TULIPS | SYLVIA PLATH

The tulips are too excitable, it is winter here.
Look how white everything is, how quiet, how snowed-in
I am learning peacefulness, lying by myself quietly
As the light lies on these white walls, this bed, these hands.
I am nobody; I have nothing to do with explosions.
I have given my name and my day-clothes up to the nurses
And my history to the anaesthetist and my body to surgeons.

They have propped my head between the pillow and the sheet-cuff
Like an eye between two white lids that will not shut.
Stupid pupil, it has to take everything in.
The nurses pass and pass, they are no trouble,
They pass the way gulls pass inland in their white caps,
Doing things with their hands, one just the same as another,
So it is impossible to tell how many there are.

My body is a pebble to them, they tend it as water
Tends to the pebbles it must run over, smoothing them gently.
They bring me numbness in their bright needles, they bring me sleep.
Now I have lost myself I am sick of baggage -
My patent leather overnight case like a black pillbox,
My husband and child smiling out of the family photo;
Their smiles catch onto my skin, little smiling hooks.

I have let things slip, a thirty-year-old cargo boat
Stubbornly hanging on to my name and address.
They have swabbed me clear of my loving associations.
Scared and bare on the green plastic-pillowed trolley
I watched my teaset, my bureaus of linen, my books
Sink out of sight, and the water went over my head.
I am a nun now, I have never been so pure.

I didn’t want any flowers, I only wanted
To lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty.
How free it is, you have no idea how free -
The peacefulness is so big it dazes you,
And it asks nothing, a name tag, a few trinkets.
It is what the dead close on, finally; I imagine them
Shutting their mouths on it, like a Communion tablet.

The tulips are too red in the first place, they hurt me.
Even through the gift paper I could hear them breathe
Lightly, through their white swaddlings, like an awful baby.
Their redness talks to my wound, it corresponds.
They are subtle: they seem to float, though they weigh me down,
Upsetting me with their sudden tongues and their colour,
A dozen red lead sinkers round my neck.

Nobody watched me before, now I am watched.
The tulips turn to me, and the window behind me
Where once a day the light slowly widens and slowly thins,
And I see myself, flat, ridiculous, a cut-paper shadow
Between the eye of the sun and the eyes of the tulips,
And I hve no face, I have wanted to efface myself.
The vivid tulips eat my oxygen.

Before they came the air was calm enough,
Coming and going, breath by breath, without any fuss.
Then the tulips filled it up like a loud noise.
Now the air snags and eddies round them the way a river
Snags and eddies round a sunken rust-red engine.
They concentrate my attention, that was happy
Playing and resting without committing itself.

The walls, also, seem to be warming themselves.
The tulips should be behind bars like dangerous animals;
They are opening like the mouth of some great African cat,
And I am aware of my heart: it opens and closes
Its bowl of red blooms out of sheer love of me.
The water I taste is warm and salt, like the sea,
And comes from a country far away as health.

SOUNDTRACK | Bela Bartok; Violin Sonata n.2 | Oistrakh & Kremer

Stanzas in meditation | Stanza XV

Gertrude Stein

Should they may be they might if they delight
In why they must see it be there not only necessarily
But which they might in which they might
For which they might delight if they look there
And they see there that they look there
To see it be there which it is if it is
Which may be where where it is
If they do not occasion it to be different
From what it is.
In one direction there is the sun and the moon
In the other direction there are cumulus clouds and the sky
In the other direction there is why
They look at what they see
They look very long while they talk along
And they may be said to see that at which they look
Whenever there is no chance of its not being warmer
Than if they wish which they were.
They see that they have what is there may there
Be there also what is to be there if they may care
They care for it of course they care for it.
Now only think three times roses green and blue
And vegetables and pumpkins and pansies too
Which they like as they are very likely not to be
Reminded that it is more than ever necessary
That they should never be surprised at any one time
At just what they have been given by taking what they have
Which they are very careful not to add with
As they may easily indulge in the fragrance
Not only of which but by which they know
That they tell them so.

I can barely remember his face.

Though his eyes I still see, both of them
glowing above me;  when I turn the lights off
they float over my sight as embers.

And I ask myself why my hands still know exactly
the shape of his chest and my arms yet sense
how easily they encircled his waist and how
softly or tightly they pressured his hips.

When he crossed my sigh, the very rhythm
of his walk and how his shoulders moved
and the tone his voice assumed when he
slobbered in my ear one of his many lies.

Oh shades, oh gentleness!

The smell of his sex, the way he
silently  pled for my hard flesh on his
softness, and how deep or shallow,
fierce or tender, fast or leisurely
he asked me to thread my heart on his.

These things I could never forget.

 Liebes-Lied

RAINER MARIA RILKE

Wie soll ich meine Seele halten, daß
sie nicht an deine rührt? Wie soll ich sie
hinheben über dich zu andern Dingen?
Ach gerne möchte ich sie bei irgendetwas
Verlorenem im Dunkel unterbringen
an einer fremden stillen Stelle, die
nicht weiterschwingt, wenn deine Tiefen schwingen.
Doch alles, was uns anrührt, dich und mich,
nimmt uns zusammen wie ein Bogenstrich,
die aus zwei Saiten eine Stimme zieht.
Auf welches Instrument sind wir gespannt?
Und welcher Geiger hat uns in der Hand?
O süßes Lied.

***

English translation:
Love Song

How shall I hold on to my soul, so that
it does not touch yours? How shall I lift
it gently up over you on to other things?
I would so very much like to tuck it away
among long lost objects in the dark,
in some quiet, unknown place, somewhere
which remains motionless when your depths resound.
And yet everything which touches us, you and me,
takes us together like a single bow,
drawing out from two strings but one voice.
On which instrument are we strung?
And which violinist holds us in his hand?
O sweetest of songs.

Poem  | Liebes-Lied | Rainer Maria RIlke | Video-reading Ygor Raduy

Mirna não gosta de pessoas. Não tem nenhuma amiga. Com doze anos, Mirna já sente um cansaço. No recreio, senta-se no último degrau. Espia os meninos, com asco. Espia as meninas, com tédio. Algo nela pergunta: “Como eu saio desse lugar?” Algo nela responde. Mas é uma resposta com guinchos.

***

Quandoos olhos de Júlia e Erasmos se cruzaram na quadra de basquete, nenhum deles precisou falar. Amaram-se, com um fogo. Ele era um potro, ela tinha  fome. Ou seja.  Viveram dias incendiários. Câimbras, aberturas, ânus, latitude. Semanas depois, um caminhão atropelou Erasmos. As engrenagens atingiram o abdômen. Júlia, da calçada, viu quando o  torneado do peito  foi rasgado de cima pra baixo. Quanta eficiência. Durou um segundo. E depois todo aquele espirramento no asfalto. Era meio-dia.

***

Óbvio que Gonçalo era viado. Não que ele desse pinta. Pelo contrário. Era bem macho.

***

Osófila tem uma irmã chamada Drosófila. Ambas têm mania de limpeza. Moram juntas. São perfeitamente infelizes. E alegres. “- Querida, acabou a K-boa?” Na tarde de domingo, é essa questão que ressoa. Dia de faxina.

***

Ingro passou um ano inteiro com depressão severa. Depois, melhorou um pouco, engordou, arranjou um emprego. Mas piorou de novo. Coitado.

***

Sem motivo aparente, uma mulher matou seu cão de estimação da raça Yorkshire. O estranho é que o fez com um balde. E o cachorro não morria direito, porque afinal o balde era de plástico, daqueles de 1,99.  Foi lastimável. Quanto mais ela martelava a cabeça do cachorro com aquele balde estúpido, mais ele se contraía e gania. Mulher burra. Nunca ouviu falar em faca? Depois foi tudo pro You Tube. Bem feito.

***

Trônia decidiu, um dia, que queria ter bigode. Ela comunicou seu desejo apenas a seu terapeuta, que respondeu: “Humm…” Aliás, o terapeuta só dizia “Humm…” Se bem que esse ruído vinha acrescido às vezes de um “fale mais sobre isso” e outras vezes, raramente,  de um “mas e a sua mãe?” Trônia desconfiava que seu terapeuta era meio retardado. Bem. O fato é que ela queria um bigode. Por que? Não pode? Ué!

***

Vígulo voltava do boteco quando foi abordado por um homem de terno que lhe perguntou: “Quer conhecer Jesus?”. Seguiu-se um bizarro diálogo no qual Vírgulo tentava saber quem era o tal Jesus e o outro respondia com evasivas. “Jesus te ama!” – disse finalmente o homem de terno, já exausto. Foi o suficiente.

Esse teu pequeno gesto resta em mim
quando chove – pois repouso em ti,  oculto,
na seção escusa do peito – a chuva é cúmplice.

Habito, sem que saibas que as gotas da
chuva brincam e perfazem arcos de luz
pálida – eu, na parte muda, agarrado
à chuva, às coronárias, ao tecido macio
do teu órgão, estendo o pequeno movimento.

Na chuva, ainda a brincadeira concêntrica,
a parte baixa do teu abdômen, a superfície
brilhante das folhas, o torso de gotículas;

pois enquanto a chuva, na parte oclusa,
dança nas poças, na aorta, os divertidos coágulos;
eis que brinco eu, elíptico, ou os arcos brincam,
delicados, vagos,  vão trêmulos em tua direção.

Text and video | Ygor Raduy

Video soundtrack | Frederic Chopin | Waltz n.2 in A Minor | Arthr Rubinstein

Não sou o que te quer. Sou o que desce
a ti, veia por veia, e se derrama
à cata de si mesmo e do que é chama
e em cinza se reúne e se arrefece.

Anoitece contigo. E me anoitece
o lume do que é findo e me reclama.
Abro as mãos no obscuro. Toco a trama
que lacuna a lacuna amor se tece.

Repousa em ti o espanto que em mim dói,
norturno. E te revolvo. E estás pousada,
pomba de pura sombra que me rói.

E mordo teu silêncio corrosivo,
chupo o que flui, amor, sei que estou vivo
e sou teu salto em mim, suspenso em nada.

Poema de Bruno Tolentino | In: Anulação & outros reparos: edição definitiva. Rio de Janeiro: Topbooks, 1998, p. 167 | Leitura Ygor Raduy

At a certain time of the Day,
when the night hasn´t yet taken its place;
in the very top of warmth this mild gentle
verse arises – or when the dawn begins
to cast its shadows around me and my house
and all warbles cease: when the silence can be heard at last;
a frail chord of death echoes nearby and
I sit alone at this very second in my reading chair.

For there is a needle sheltered in the softest part
of my chest, for when slightly the  night arrives, its prickles
move, digging my tenderness with such graceful joy -
I myself become joyful either, even if the night
has not yet reached or crossed its deadline.

Thus I stay, thus I lay in my reading chair
as a corpse full of running veins and contented
for the night to come brings its moisture
and I know somewhere around the silky surface
of male skin is finally undressed and breathes.

Comes from my window in this very minute
a smell of shattered limbs alive, sweet
as  semen and oil from the lower parts extracted,
weightless as light; it surrounds the neighborhood
of myself; as the night  lands carefully its  wings
and covers the air with a mantle: oh kindest hour!

foto | Roberto Cambusano | Londres

All right. People say pigs are flying in London. What does that mean? I cannot believe in such a thing. I have a friend, you see. He lives in London. He said to me, his name is Camb, he said to me pigs are all around flying. All right. What does that mean? I think Camb is not lying, that´s for sure. But these news are not quite good. Pigs cannot fly, you see. I had a pig business once, in Worcestershire. My pigs had never flown! They never even thought about that! My pigs – you see – didn´t even know what flying was. That´s for sure. And now, Camb calls me and says: “Pigs are flying here, mate!” Well, what does that mean? Camb knows pigs. I know pigs. They have no wings. Not a single feather! So, I thought. Maybe these poor pigs had drunk water from the Thames! You see. Isn´t that an awful matter? Who, for Christ’s sake, let them drink that water? Camb would never do it. He´s not a bad person. That´s for sure. The question is: pigs are flying.  What does that mean? You see, when I was a boy, my daddy had a pig business. And his pigs, my daddy´s pigs, had never, not even for a moment, thought about flying. That´s for sure. Pigs eat and sleep. And sometimes fuck. But fly? Well, that I cannot believe. So, you see, I made up a theory. These pigs are not really pigs. These bastards. They are disguised birds! That´s for sure. But why these birds decided to make everyone in London believe they are pigs? I don´t really know that. Maybe Camb knows it. You see, I had a pig business, my father had a pig business, my grandfather also. These fellows do not fly. That´s for sure.

Foto e Texto | Ygor Raduy

Foto | Roberto Cambusano | Londres

Desenho: dor | Curitiba | Ygor Raduy

Veja a postagem inteira em http://multigraphias.com/

Estácio, um homem amigável. Seus pés, duros como rocha. Ele habita uma casa de prostitutas. Certo dia, vi Estácio irromper na saleta do bordel e dizer: “- Quem tem sede, venha a mim e beba.”. Nunca pude decifrar o significado desse dito.

Uma vez que Péricles, irmão de Estácio, entra na história, tudo muda. Péricles é alvo, calça um par de sandálias arcaicas, os olhos doces, pacientes. Nada que lembre o irmão Estácio. Na primavera, Péricles brinca nas membranas da tarde – seu corpo desliza entre arbustos, hastes, âmbar.

O terceiro irmão, Vespasiano, fabrica doces. Diz-se: um confeiteiro. A especialidade de Vespasiano são suspiros. Suspiros levíssimos. Vespasiano reside em uma jaula. Os suspiros crescem além da conta e formam estruturas aneladas. Excesso de fermento, dizem, loucura do confeiteiro, morto por asfixia em suspiros.

E já que estamos em Péricles, não custa narrar o dia em que ele apareceu na horta de gerânios, nu do pescoço pra baixo, cantarolando uma antiga canção eslava. Cru, como um nabo recém-retirado da terra, ele passeava entre as hortaliças. Belo como um potro.

Estácio é um cavalo. Cordilheira abaixo, seus cascos de queratina, as crinas em flor, voejantes. O equador é uma linha tão fina. E no Estreito de Bósforo as rochas são verde-azuladas.

Para finalmente chegarmos a Tâmara, irmã de todos. Ela é jardineira. Seu forte são as begônias. Dentro do peito de Tâmara, vejo fractais. Há uma música tão próxima. É Tâmara cantarolando enquanto rega os gerânios. Na vagina de Tâmara, um espasmo vai e volta, como um sopro.

Fim da narrativa. Abençoada seja Tâmara, a hortifrutigranjeira. Abençoado seja Estácio. Abençoado seja Péricles, com seus dotes de marujo. Abençoado seja Vespasiano, o homem que virou suco. E abençoados sejam os tomates, pois sem eles jamais conseguiríamos fazer molho bolonhesa.