com nossos vinte e poucos anos,
achamos que já somos adultos
mas ainda brincamos de
pigue-pega
cabra-cega
gato-mia
vaca-amarela
polícia e ladrão
e peteca
falamos e não dizemos nada
ou optamos pelos códigos
todos secretos,
sem legenda
justamente para que ninguém entenda
fechamos os olhos para que
se escondam de nós
contamos até vinte para
irmos atrás
tampamos os ouvidos
vendamos os olhos
e a boca
nos declaramos debaixo d'água
na piscina do prédio
sabendo que o outro não vai entender,
mas torcendo para que entenda
aparecemos,
soltamos o riso
e quando alguém vem atrás de nós
logo corremos
fugimos
e nos escondemos
dentro de nós mesmos..
ah, o esconde-esconde!
quanta nostalgia!
crescendo com essas brincadeiras todas,
como poderíamos agir diferente também?!
e agora,
topa uma amarelinha?!
Finally the third poem :-)
ResponderExcluirThis is different from the other two, in that it is a poem, not something adpated from letters. However, it also strikes me as marking a new stage in your poetry (and maybe your life, though I am not sure about that). Most of the poems over the last few months have been about a relationship, often being written for a speicifc person. With the two other new poems you seem to have brought this to a close - poetically at least. Now you are starting a new cycle, talking about through the lens of childhood - all the games people play, but you seem to regard them as innocent.
As usual, I like the poem. It is sweet (not a word I use often), but that is what strikes me, maybe because of the topic. It is also questionning, and I like that!!
By the way, eu topo uma amarelinha :-)
Hope to read more soon...
I came accross this poem just now. It seems very appropriate :-)
ResponderExcluirIn My Craft or Sullen Art
By Dylan Thomas
In my craft or sullen art
Exercised in the still night
When only the moon rages
And the lovers lie abed
With all their griefs in their arms,
I labour by singing light
Not for ambition or bread
Or the strut and trade of charms
On the ivory stages
But for the common wages
Of their most secret heart.
Not for the proud man apart
From the raging moon I write
On these spindrift pages
Nor for the towering dead
With their nightingales and psalms
But for the lovers, their arms
Round the griefs of the ages,
Who pay no praise or wages
Nor heed my craft or art.
Minha amiga,
ResponderExcluirOnce again I am re-reading your poems looking for inspiration (and in a way solace.. did you ever have one of those days when most things have gone ok, but some little things somehow cut you and blacken your day.. not make you sad, just in a strange mood, lonely, or something like that? Or is it just me.. ha hahaha). Anyway, I am pasting in below an article I came across by a poet which I loved. I hope you will too. I hope it will inspire you too! Reading it, I thought you should read it, but it made me wonder whether I should put it here or on your fb. I always put poetry related stuff here, when sometimes it would be better on FB, I have to ask you about this.. remind me!! :-)
Hopefully I wil read something new here soon.. :-)
PS.. please torce for me a LOT. I have just sent (again) the introduction for my book... torce that this time it will be liked - and in the next few days I will be submitting a few articles in Portuguese and English. My stuff is different and I have taken a battering over the last year or so, so please torce that this time, it will get better receptions.... :-)
PPS As usual I found the inspiration and the solace... :-)
The link is:
http://www.nybooks.com/blogs/nyrblog/2012/may/15/why-i-still-write-poetry/